MSG: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed
by His Divine Shadow
Summary: The 10th PzK and the Titans nearly turn Hameln's Remembrance Day into its Armageddon, as Kaempfer battles Barzam on the bridge across the Weser, while the Church's plan to stop Mellenthin reaps a bitter harvest. Chapter 21 UP!
1. Prologue

This work and all contained within are the property of Abyssal Lasombre Prod. and His Divine Shadow, with the exceptions of the names trademarked by Bandai for _Mobile Suit Gundam_. This is no challenge to that trademark or any other Bandai product and/or copyright.

Later chapters hold references to various works by Zinegata and Redcomet. These have been used with permission by both authors.

Alterations to the logistics of the _Mobile Suit Gundam_ universe are the work of His Divine Shadow, and not to be considered canon.

**Mobile Suit Gundam: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed**

- His Divine Shadow

An Abyssal Lasombre Production

_O yet a nobler task awaits thy hand  
(For what can war but endless war still breed?)  
Till truth and right from violence be freed,  
And public faith cleared from the shameful brand  
Of public fraud. In vain doth Valour bleed,  
While Avarice and Rapine share the land._  
  
- Milton  
  
**Prologue**  
  
**Metz, Lorraine, Western Europe  
December 7, 0079**  
  
_Is this what the end of the world feels like?_  
  
His name was Reinhardt von Seydlitz, Colonel of Zeon Mobile Infantry, and he, like the rest of the Zeon forces of Operation Lorelei, was in retreat. Slogging through the snows of Alsace-Lorraine, his mottled brown-and-green MS-07 _Gouf_ seemed to move as sluggishly as a man would in the cold. Steam rose from its battered shoulders as the heat of the Minovsky fusion reactor vaporized melting ice and snow from the seared and pitted armor. The _Gouf_, like its pilot, had been fighting for a long time, and the retreat seemed to grate on the nerves of the mobile suit the same as von Seydlitz's, if the creaking sounds it made from its frozen and field-battered actuators were signs of fatigue for an inanimate object. Only the heating unit within the suit itself kept its pilot from moving with the same staggered sluggishness.  
  
His cold gray eyes swept across the monitors of the _Gouf_, surveying the tableau the screen presented before him. Ancient trees, majestic in their age and stature, towered above the mobile suits moving towards them. Unconsciously, his eyes narrowed, scanning the tree line in the camera's view for any sign of movement or a trap. There were none. In the forests, the Zeon still ruled, and their enemies feared those places. With a flick of a wrist, the _Gouf_ signaled its fellow Zeon mobile suits forward. The MS-06F and -J _Zakus_ with him began to move forward again.  
  
Despite the damage dealt to its exterior, the _Gouf_ still bore the symbol of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer _Division: the golden eagle of Germania, wings outstretched, perched atop the golden standard of the Duchy of Zeon. As if in contrast to the golden eagle's majesty, von Seydlitz's own standard was the black eagle of Imperial Prussia, clutching a crown and sceptre in its talons. Before assuming command of the entirety of the 10th, the Prussian eagle, altered to grasp a 120mm autocannon and heat hawk in its unyielding grip, had been the unit insignia for the 358th 'Unsullied' Light Assault Battalion, which he'd personally commanded.  
  
_No. Not the end until you are dead. The Feddies have not killed me yet, so this is not the end of anything!_  
  
It had been a grand campaign, this smaller set of objectives nestled in with the mammoth Operation British, the Zeon assault on Terra. Operation Lorelei, the conquest of Central Europe, spearheaded by the cream of Kishiria Zavi's Mobile Assault Corps, the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ Division, led by the man who may have been the greatest armor commander in the entire Zeon Army; now that operation lay broken by the numerical might of the Earth Federation and the cowardice and shortsightedness of the Zavi family. But the Feddies had not broken the 10th's resolve to fight it out and wait for reinforcements. Those reinforcements had never come, and now what had been a brigade's worth of strength, 4 battalions of mobile suits and infantry, was now a pitiful collection of less than 20 mobile suits. Another company's worth were still in Metz, holding off the crushing weight of the entire Federation 9th Army, granting von Seydlitz and his ragtag band of _Zakus_ and his own _Gouf_ to escape, if at all possible. Most of the _Zakus_ were missing entire limbs, and were being partially supported by their more able comrades.  
  
_And if we escape, what then? What good are eighteen suits going to do? How do I change the face of the war with THAT? No ammunition, no food, no hope._  
  
The Federation dominated the skies, and had for some time, but the dismal weather had grounded all but the most determined of Feddie Core Fighter pilots, all aiming to cut themselves off a piece of the 10th's leftovers. Von Seydlitz understood that. A student of military history all his life, he knew the value of the land Metz stood upon. The Federation had walked into the labyrinth of fortresses and terrible terrain time and time again, and come out suffering for their troubles. In the end, things had settled into a siege that had lasted three months. But that ended with the last _Zanzibar_ transport departing Terra's surface, flying Colonel M'Quve back to Side 3, safe and sound, to fight the war in space. After that, the Federation turned its attentions to more pressing problems, like their upcoming counteroffensive against the Archduchy in space, and the elimination of the final groundborne thorn in their side, the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_.  
  
_Garma Zavi and Ranba Ral are dead. M'Quve is gone. Kerane's Tibetan division is in a shambles. Sakhalin's test project in Southeast Asia is too far to do any good here. With no transports left, then there is no escape back into space. . .and I am under orders to abandon this place._  
  
The war-torn company reached the tree line that began the trail towards Karlsruhe, then into the Schwarzwald. The forested areas were the one place in this siege the Feddies had not bothered to occupy or cut off, except with air power. With their air forces either grounded or aiding in the attack on the city, none were spared to keep view on this desolate corner of Europe, hence von Seydlitz's penchant for using it to escape through. The Federation had learned to its dismay the dangers in chasing the 10th into a forest, and they gave dense woodlands a wide berth now.  
  
The _Gouf_, at his command, turned back to look at the ruin that was once Metz. The fires were burning out of control now, in spite of the cold, and the rumble of massed artillery and a lot of mobile suits concentrated in a single area could be felt through the earth below the _Gouf's_ feet, well into the cockpit and into von Seydlitz's brain. The vibrations took his mind off the humiliation of defeat, which took his mind off the fact that he had not touched food in a week, like the rest of his men.  
  
_Condemned to a grave on defiled Terra. I doubt they will allow my corpse to molder in _Deutschland_, even if requested._  
  
The _Zakus_, slower than his _Gouf_ and in worse a condition, moved into the forest, all but one. Like all the 10th's mobile suits, the _Zaku_, one of the few J-types the 10th had received before being cut off, also sported the mottled brown-and-green "panzer" camouflage color scheme that blended so well with the terrain in Europe, except that where von Seydlitz had the black eagle of Prussia stenciled on the left breastplate of his _Gouf_, this _Zaku_ had a four-pointed white star, with a sword bisecting its brightness, emblazoned on its armor. The _Zaku's_ hand reached out to touch the shoulder of the _Gouf_, its pilot initiating the "skin talk" communication method they were under orders to use: one of the many battlefield innovations the 10th used while at war.  
  
Everything, from field tactics to color schemes to rank designations, was different in the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ than the rest of the Zeon armed forces. General von Mellenthin had earned them all those rights, by word and by blood.  
  
"Colonel," the tinny voice of the _Zaku_ pilot said, "it's time to go. Gyar's company is about to fold. Don't let their sacrifice be in vain."   
  
Von Seydlitz sighed once, teeth grinding in hate at the Federation and all Earthnoids for what they'd cost him. "Understood, _Kommandant_. Proceed with the evacuation." Von Seydlitz still used German to designate ranks, unlike the rest of the 10th. Only one other person in the division had done the same, but von Mellenthin was gone now, captured three days ago, alive, by a Federation GM team.  
  
_"I will not comply_, Generalmajor_!"_

_"You will obey my command! Take the men and get out of Metz, now! Gyar knows what to do, now go, damn you! I will not have you sacrifice yourself to save me, Reinhardt!!"_  
  
Von Seydlitz had eventually complied, but not until three days had passed. Now, he obeyed his orders, and they burned his soul. Von Mellenthin was more than a General to him. The _Gouf_ turned to follow, then disappeared into the forest, not looking back again.  
  
**Cuvry, Lorraine, Western Europe  
December 7, 0079**  
  
The _Big Tray_-class land battleship that was the mobile command post for the Federation 9th Army remained well outside the operational area occupied by Metz. Rather, it was situated in the township of Cuvry, 8 km distant. Within the massive war machine, Captain Lucas Edgrove raced as fast as his lanky legs could carry him up the narrow stairwells leading to the upper levels. Screeching to a halt before a steel door bearing the name DERRICK, he rapped quickly three times.  
  
"Come," spoke the voice behind the door. Edgrove opened it without hesitation, saluting as he entered.  
  
General Walker Derrick, commander of the 9th Army, returned the salute haphazardly, and then glared at his aide-de-camp. With his graying hair, squinty eyes and substantial girth, the General looked a bit like a bulldog seated behind the metal desk, and Edgrove knew his mannerisms were about the same as the breed, as well.  
  
"Report, Captain," he mumbled around a cigar that he might have been chewing on for the extent of the war. The staff of the _Big Tray_ could not collectively remember seeing him without it. Sheets of papers and maps were scattered through the ready room, which doubled as the General's quarters.  
  
"Sir, the Zeeks are on the run. Elements of the 6th and 8th Battalions report scattered activity throughout Metz. They're fighting us, but not the way they used to. G-2 thinks they're broken. Major Eisley is on the horn right now, giving us the play-by-play, if you'd like to listen in, sir."   
  
The General clapped his hands together sharply. "Finally. Fina-_fucking_-lly! That bastard von Seydlitz and his Spacenoids have run out of steam! Let's go, Edgrove! Time to watch some Zeeks give up the ghost!" With a spryness a man of his age should not possess, Derrick raced out the door. Edgrove ran to catch up, then kept pace with his shorter, more robust commanding officer.  
  
Derrick blasted into the CinC bridge like a hurricane, bellowing for reports. The petty officer announcing his arrival on the bridge never stood a chance, barely catching herself from being bowled over in the General's haste. Edgrove followed in Derrick's wake, trying not to cause a scene. Most of the bridge staff were clustered near the comm officer's station, listening with an intensity that was evidence enough of how tired they'd all become of trying to break the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_'s hold on Fortress Metz. Edgrove edged forward, trying to catch what he could of Major Carson Eisley's report.  
  
Eisley's voice was barely audible through the Minovsky interference, but distinguishable from the sounds of battle and the hiss of static. _" . . . estimate company strength still resisting us for control of the city. Enemy forces weakening under artillery bombardment and GM advance. We're going to broadcast---_"   
  
The entire bridge crew, including the General, jumped abruptly as what sounded like a shell landed entirely too close to Eisley's position. Everyone held their breaths, wondering if they'd just heard the death of the Major. A coughing sound from the speaker made them all sigh with relief.  
  
_"---As I was saying, we're going to try to broadcast the surrender message once more, but we may have to wipe them out to a man. Visibility is---_"   
  
"The hell with the visibility!" raged Derrick into the transmitter. "Are they truly broken or not?"  
  
After a hesitation, Eisley's voice spoke again. "_Zeon units falling back in all sectors. They cannot break out. We have them, sir._"   
  
The entire bridge erupted into cheers, as the tension of the three-month siege broke suddenly and flooded away. The Federation officers and soldiers, all battle-hardened veterans, shook hands and embraced. Some even wept in relief. General Derrick hung his head, a smile forming behind the cigar.  
  
Edgrove just stared out the windows at the smoke plume that was Metz. It was only when Derrick grabbed him by the uniform jacket that he snapped back into the here-and-now.

"I told you, Captain! Once we'd broken them out of those damn forts, they were ours! OURS! The 10th is finished, and with them the Zeeks on Earth! Operation Odessa is a success!" Derrick yelled into his ear over the din.  
  
"Yes, sir!" was all Edgrove could reply with, his shock was still too deep that it was finally over.  
  
"Bring that Zeek _Herr General_ up here, on the double! I want him to hear what it's like to lose a fucking war!" hollered Derrick to the MP near the door. The man immediately left to fetch their prize to the bridge.  
  
The Zeon had turned Metz into a meatgrinder that fed on men, tanks, and mobile suits like a gluttonous demon. Von Mellenthin had proven himself a truly able commander and a viciously devious foe, using the labyrinth of forts around Metz and the terrain that the Lorraine provided to stall the 9th Army into a siege. Six divisions had been broken trying to smash through the pocket, by a force a fraction of their size. His successor, Colonel von Seydlitz, was no less able, and had held off the latest Federation offensive for three days before this moment. The rest of Operation Odessa had proceeded without them, and Operation Star One was beginning to form in space, as Admiral Tianem's fleet began to group near Luna II. Edgrove had never believed in the concept of "soldier-fanatics" until he'd encountered the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ Division. They were down now, but Edgrove couldn't help but wonder what would have happened if von Mellenthin had been commanding the entirety of the Zeon Mobile Assault Corps.  
  
That was the key to it all. Major General Dietrich von Mellenthin, called the 'Hessian Lion', captured three days ago and currently rotting in a deep, dark cell in the bowels of the _Big Tray_, under heavy guard and a suicide watch. Edgrove shuddered unconsciously at the thought of the carnage. After all, von Mellenthin had been in command when Luxembourg was razed into a cinder after a month's fighting, devastating the Federation 4th Armored Division when it could not escape the onslaught and chose to fight it out. Nothing remained of Luxembourg except blackened husks of buildings and mass graves, testament to the brutality of the 'Hessian Lion' and his legion of killers. During the war, no Federation force had been able to match him in strategic initiative, and the approach of his personal _Gouf_, proudly bearing the red-and-white rampant lion of Hessia, signaled the coming of an unbeatable foe. It was not until the Federation had managed to stalemate the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ at the Pyrenees Mountains near Spain that the war had begun to turn in their favor in Europe. But it had not been an easy victory by far.  
  
Under von Mellenthin, the 10th had cost the Federation thousands of lives and hundreds of tanks, planes, and mobile suits, and even after the destruction of one of its brigades in Paris, they simply would not give up the fight. The 10th, and von Mellenthin, had proven that a land war in Europe was indeed the true face of Hell.  
  
As though he'd just spoken of the devil, there the man was. Flanked by a pair of armed MPs, in a tattered smoke-gray and gold Zeon uniform, rank tabs denoting his rank as a Major General (Rear Admiral if this were any other Zeon unit) of Mobile Infantry, with a reddened bandage over part of his scalp, and obvious contusions on his face that must have come from the application of fists or truncheons. It had taken four RGM-79G GMs to pull down his _Gouf_, and it had apparently taken the same to subdue its pilot. His hands were bound in front of him with handcuffs, but that did not seem to deter him. Edgrove knew he could have encountered this man on a street anywhere in the universe and known he was a soldier.  
  
Dietrich von Mellenthin was not a broken man, even after three days of ruthless interrogation, near-starvation, and solitary confinement. His blond hair, despite its extremely short length, was matted to his skull, the proud face shrunken and marred from combat and hunger, but his 5'11" frame was ramrod straight, his bearing as precise as his leadership had been. He radiated command from every pore, and Edgrove knew that unlike what he'd been told at Jaburo, not every higher-ranking Zeon was a political appointee or a favorite of the Zavis. This man had been bred for warfare, and he was only 23 years of age. His eyes, very blue with the barest hints of green, scanned the bridge of the _Big Tray_ and everyone within it, calculating. When they passed over Edgrove, the young Federation Captain shivered in anxiety. That a man so young could accomplish what this one had gave some testament to Zeon Daikun's theory of human evolution in space.  
  
Von Mellenthin smiled. He may have been the only Zeon General captured alive in the war, but he was definitely not a broken man.  
  
Eisley was speaking again over the radio, but no one caught what he said. Derrick grabbed the transmitter and hollered "Repeat that, Major!" into it.   
  
Despite the impetus, Eisley yelled even louder. "_They're giving up, sir!_"

**Metz, Lorraine, Western Europe  
December 7, 0079**  
  
In the center of the city, the last eight Zeon mobile suits stood in a ring, facing the three battalions of RGM-79Gs, supported by Type-61 tanks and standard Federation infantry. Masses of more Federation troops moved through the streets of Metz, sifting through the rubble for Zeon holdouts. Major Carson Eisley, staring at the eight battered Zeon _Zakus_, had never seen a more beautiful sight. Unable to keep a smile of victory off his face, he raised the transmitter on the loudspeaker of his Type-61 to his face.  
  
"Zeon forces of the 10th Mobile Armored Division," he began, not deigning to call this rabble by the division's true title, "you are surrounded by superior Federation combat units. Throw down your weapons or face annihilation. You have one minute to comply." The loudspeaker projected his voice through the city, to every Zeon suit, and to the _Big Tray_ where General Derrick would hear it via the radio.  
  
A _Zaku_ stepped out of the ring of mobile suits, braving the trigger-happy Federation GMs around him to face Eisley's Type-61. The standard on the _Zaku_ was a ghastly gray specter, hands outstretched as if to grab its foes. The hatch of the _Zaku_ opened, and a man stepped out holding a comm transmitter of his own.  
  
**Cuvry, Lorraine, Western Europe  
December 7, 0079**  
  
The silence on the bridge was almost palpable as Eisley was heard to mutter: "_'Mistwraith' Gyar is the one is command. He'll speak for the Zeeks._"   
  
Von Mellenthin spoke into the silence, a pleasant baritone that most field commanders tried hard to develop but this man possessed by genetics alone. "Ahh, Juergen. How convenient. I hope your man enjoys surprises."  
  
**Metz, Lorraine, Western Europe  
December 7, 0079**  
  
"This is Major Juergen Gyar of the 147th Recon Battalion, 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ Division," spoke the man, red-haired and tall, with the light of defiance in his eyes. He was the Zeon ace the Federation had nicknamed 'Mistwraith' for his ability to simply appear, kill, and disappear again, and it was well earned. The 147th 'Unseen Hand' Recon Battalion had been responsible for the rapid fall of Berlin, and its record of accomplishment was impressive. "I am in command of the defenders of Metz. State your terms."  
  
**Cuvry, Lorraine, Western Europe  
December 7, 0079**  
  
"No terms," hissed Derrick into the transceiver, facing down von Mellenthin as though to make the younger man quail. "Unconditional surrender is all we're gonna offer the scum."  
  
"Where's von Seydlitz?" mused Edgrove aloud, making heads turn to stare at him.  
  
Von Mellenthin only smiled.  
  
**Metz, Lorraine, Western Europe  
December 7, 0079**  
  
"The Federation demands the unconditional surrender of all combat forces in the city of Metz, and total disarmament of all Zeon forces remaining with the capacity to fight. What is the location of the criminal Reinhardt von Seydlitz?" boomed Eisley's voice across the square.  
  
"Where you can't ask him any questions, Feddie swine," was Gyar's reply. "We find your terms unacceptable, and your manners disgraceful. We choose not to surrender Metz to you, or our mobile suits."  
  
The Federation representative's reply was laced with shock. "Are you insane?? You can't possibly be serious! Give yourselves up, Zeeks, or Metz will be your grave!"  
  
**Cuvry, Lorraine, Western Europe  
December 7, 0079**  
  
"I'm of a mind to give them no quarter at all," steamed Derrick around his cigar, fingers white on the transceiver. "Tell 'em, Eisley."   
  
"You haven't got what it takes, General," said von Mellenthin. "You may just win this battle, but are you prepared to accept the price?"  
  
The teeth around the cigar clenched angrily. "Shut him up," he spat at the MPs. "You're here to watch your Zeek friends cave in, not give commentary."  
  
One of the MPs slapped von Mellenthin across the back of the head, eliciting nothing but a dull _whack_. The Zeon General straightened his neck and smiled again.  
  
_It's almost as though he knows something we don't_, thought Edgrove. _What could it be?_  
  
**Metz, Lorraine, Western Europe  
December 7, 0079**  
  
Gyar's laugh echoed through the rubble around them. "Send out your champion to fight me for Metz, and if he can best me in combat between mobile suits, I'll turn Metz over to you with no further resistance. If your man loses, you withdraw and leave us be. What do you say, Federation subhuman?"   
  
**Cuvry, Lorraine, Western Europe  
December 7, 0079**  
  
Edgrove was sweating. Why was this Zeon ace playing for time? Why wasn't his captive boss concerned? _What are they planning?_  
  
Eisley's voice was laced with sarcasm. "_Believe me, I'd rather kill you myself, but you're living in a dream world, Spaceman. This isn't the Middle Ages, where a single duel solves anything. We have the advantage, we have the firepower, and we have you surrounded. Last chance, surrender or die._"  
  
"Just remember, your man said it first. I didn't," pointed out von Mellenthin, gesturing towards the comm panel.  
  
"The General said to shut the fuck up." The MP hit him again. Von Mellenthin's smile grew larger, and he held up his bound hands in front of the MP's face. The second MP put a pistol to the back of von Mellenthin's head as the Zeon reached for the first MP and placed his hands on the man's uniform jacket.  
  
**Metz, Lorraine, Western Europe  
December 7, 0079**  
  
Gyar did not immediately respond. Instead, he ducked into the _Zaku's_ cockpit and toggled the frequency for the unit "push", the channel the Zeon suits would hear. "This is it, men. Do just what I told you, and what you've been prepared for. They'll never let us leave alive, so if we're going to Valhalla, we'd might as well have some more Feddie slaves to kill over and over again when we get there, eh?"  
  
The voice of another Zeon soldier, one of the 147th's, spoke through the comm. "_It has been an honor to serve the Motherland with you, Major Gyar._" His voice was seconded and thirded by every Zeon present, even those who had only been with him for these few hours. Gyar's face went grim before he exited the _Zaku_ for the final time.  
  
**Cuvry, Lorraine, Western Europe  
December 7, 0079**  
  
"_The Zeeks are coming out of their suits_," reported Eisley to the _Big Tray_. "_We'll take them into custody once they hit the dirt. I'll bring them to you in chains, General_."   
  
"Well done, Major." Derrick's face was alight with an emotion akin to glee, along with most everyone else's on the command bridge.  
  
_Then why are my hands sweating?_ thought Edgrove, wiping his palms on his khaki uniform pants.  
  
The MP did not pull the trigger on his pistol, though his finger trembled on the tiny firing lever. Von Mellenthin withdrew his hands from the first MP's jacket front, holding a pair of standard-issue sunglasses. With as much of a flourish as he could manage with both hands tied together, he flicked open the sunglasses and placed them on his nose. He continued to smile, the shades masking whatever his eyes may have told. The MP chose not to retrieve his property. That could be done later.  
  
"_Wait . . .it looks like they're not done talking yet_."  
  
**Metz, Lorraine, Western Europe  
December 7, 0079**  
  
"Our answer remains 'no', Federation lackey. You will not recover Metz from us, nor will we surrender to your corrupt rule. That is our final response. What say you?" proclaimed Gyar, his heart filled with more peace and pride than he had ever felt before. His right hand held the transceiver unit. His left fist held a group of cables that led into the rear of the _Zaku's_ cockpit. The same held true for the rest of the Zeon pilots.  
  
The GMs surrounding the Zeon suits seemed to shrink back, their guns lowering slightly at the words of the Zeon ace.  
  
"I say you are mad, and you're about to die for nothing," came the reply from the Federation.  
  
"For nothing? That is why you will lose this war, Earthenoid."

Gyar and the rest of the Zeon pilots stood on the hatchplates of their _Zakus_, facing their tormentors. Gyar's left hand shot into the air, fist clenched, the cables running behind him pulling taut, then giving with a snap. They dangled at his feet, as he raised his eyes to the gray sky. The rest of the Zeon pilots mimicked his actions, their cables pulling loose from the innards of their _Zakus_.  
  
In unison, they began to speak to the Federation soldiers gathered around them. Their words, transmitted over the loudspeakers, reached every living person in Metz.

"**Who stands still, goes backward; who rests on laurels, which he has not harvested, lies only on a prettier bearskin; only he who wants to do more than what has been done already, will do what he can do. In the darkness without end, only those who are worthy will become more than what they are. The false light of Earth will be cast off, and the true light of the universe will illuminate Space. Then, we will truly be free!**"  
  
**Cuvry, Lorraine, Western Europe  
December 7, 0079**  
  
"What's happening, Major?" shouted Derrick into the transceiver. "Report!"  
  
"Gyar's right, you know," said von Mellenthin to the entire bridge. "You may win this battle, but Zeon will not lose the war."  
  
The MPs did not strike him, nor did General Derrick respond. Von Mellenthin continued. "In space, you will see the true spirit of the Zeon people, and none of you will ever doubt our convictions again."  
  
**Metz, Lorraine, Western Europe  
December 7, 0079**  
  
As the Zeon spoke their mantra, one of the RGM-79Gs that had not been covering the remaining Zeon finished its sweep of the surrounding avenue and turned its head towards the cluster of tanks and suits forming the iron wall around the last of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ Division. This particular GM's camera had been switched to infra-red vision (to scan the rubble for human body heat) before that moment, and it's pilot blinked three times to make certain that he was seeing what was being shown in his camera's screen. Then, he smashed a hand on the TRANSMIT toggle on his comm.   
  
**Cuvry, Lorraine, Western Europe  
December 7, 0079**  
  
Derrick spun around to face von Mellenthin again. "You Spacemen talk some talk, but if you were so bad-ass, why'd you get kicked off the planet? Why the hell are you standing there as my prisoner? Answer that, 'Hessian Lion', or should we call you 'Butcher of Luxembourg'?"  
  
The smile fell off of von Mellenthin's face, but his tone of voice went from conversationally pleasing to ice-cold. "You fear me and my men because we have cost you so much here on Earth. More powerful people than myself await you in space. If you thought you had a chance to defeat we Zeon on Terra, why did it take you an entire Army Group to eliminate one understrength brigade? Why did you lose six divisions trying to dislodge us from one location? Now imagine what it will be like in space, where we hold the supply lines and you do not. You will lose the war, General, and Terra will pay for its crimes against evolution." Then he smiled again.

Derrick turned away with a snort of derision.  
  
Edgrove was listening to Gyar's words intently when the tactical officer tapped him on the shoulder and motioned for him to step away from the comm panel. Reluctantly, he complied.  
  
"Sir, sorry to disturb you, but I'm getting a direct report from one of 6th Battalion's GMs. He says the Zeek suits are glowing."   
  
"'Glowing'?" Edgrove was confused.  
  
"Sir, he's rigged for IR sweeps. The Zeon suits are running very hot."   
  
"Have you got a visual stream?" asked Edgrove. "Show me."

'Running very hot' was an understatement. The _Zakus_ were glowing white, and getting brighter as Edgrove watched.  
  
"Got a cigarette?" asked von Mellenthin of his guards. One of the MPs complied, and von Mellenthin placed the thin tube of tobacco between his still-smiling lips.  
  
With a hoarse cry of alarm, Edgrove dove for the comm panel.  
  
**Metz, Lorraine, Western Europe  
December 7, 0079**  
  
"**We who tread amongst the stars fear no Earthly demise, for to return to shadows and dust is to return to the darkness from which we came, to rule all things when the light shines upon us all. The light of Humanity is Zeon, and Her dead---**"   
  
Five beeps interrupted the mantra, each coming from the computers aboard the _Zakus_.  
  
"**---shall live---**"  
  
A harsh whining sound issued forth from the _Zakus_, and Gyar could not help but smile at the beauty of it all, even as he closed his eyes.  
  
"**---forever!**"   
  
**Cuvry, Lorraine, Western Europe  
December 7, 0079**  
  
Edgrove plowed his way past the rest of the soldiers hovering near the console and grabbed the transceiver out of Derrick's hand violently.  
  
Von Mellenthin reached out with both hands and took hold of a deck rail.  
  
"What the he---!" was all the Federation General had time to spurt out.  
  
"_GET OUT OF THERE!!_" shrieked Edgrove into the transceiver at Eisley. "_PULL OUT!!_"  
  
**Metz, Lorraine, Western Europe  
December 7, 0079**  
  
Eisley's head jerked back at the violence issuing from the speaker. "What in the blue hell is---?"  
  
"**_SIEG_ ZEON!!**"  
  
Eisley did not fail to see the smile on the face of 'Mistwraith' Gyar before the world went white.  
  
The simultaneous detonation of eight Minovsky reactors, with their safeguards having been manually deactivated, illuminated the spot Metz lay upon with more heat than a 4-megaton nuclear blast, concentrated in a space three kilometers around. For a moment, Metz registered brighter than the launch of Admiral Tianem's fleet from Jaburo.  
  
**Cuvry, Lorraine, Western Europe  
December 7, 0079**

The concussion reached Cuvry in a matter of milliseconds, knocking everyone, with the notable exception of Dietrich von Mellenthin, in the _Big Tray_ to the floor and ratting every millimeter of the giant land battleship.  
  
Groaning, Edgrove pulled himself up on the comm panel and looked out the armored window at Metz. Then he groaned again, from the depths of his soul.  
  
There was a white ball encompassing the sky, violent and merciless. He knew then that this had been one last trap, one final gambit on the part of the Zeon. Metz would never belong to the Federation, because Metz had ceased to exist, along with almost an entire brigade of Federation GMs, tanks, and infantry. The man responsible stood on their bridge, wearing sunglasses and hardly able to restrain his exuberance at the sight of it.  
  
At the sight, the cigar in General Derrick's mouth slipped from between his lips, and hit the floor. It rolled across the deck plating until von Mellenthin stopped it with a boot. He casually reached down and picked up the cigar, spitting the cigarette out of his mouth and replacing it with General Derrick's habitual stogie. No one dared say a word.  
  
Von Mellenthin looked down at one of the MPs, who was staggering back to his feet, pistol trained on the Zeon General. Von Mellenthin quirked an eyebrow, still grinning. "Got a light?"   
  
Someone began to sob. The MP whipped his pistol across von Mellenthin's face, clubbing the man to the floor in rage. Von Mellenthin spat blood and laughed, the cigar forgotten.  
His laughter punctuated the sounds of weeping, and Edgrove knew this war was far from over.  
  
**Landau Forest, Lorraine, Western Europe  
December 7, 0079**  
  
In the ancient forest, moving towards the Schwarzwald and freedom, the mobile suits of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ Division shuddered as the Earth beneath them rumbled and quaked at the blast, testament to the death of Juergen Gyar and his company of mobile suits.  
  
Reinhardt von Seydlitz's face did not alter itself, nor did his _Gouf_ falter in the upheaval. Instead, he merely said the words that had formed the basis for the existence of the war he still waged.  
  
_Not over by far, Feddies. This is only the beginning. You are still my prey._  
  
"_Sieg_ Zeon."


	2. Chapter 1

**MSG: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed  
  
Chapter 1  
  
Berchtesgaden, Bayern, Central Europe  
April 30, 0087**  
  
Long after the last hiss of the crew train had echoed away in the massive caverns underneath Obersalzberg, a sound of a different nature began its lilting dirge, bouncing from stalactite to stalagmite. If one stood close enough to one of those pillars of water-condensed minerals, the true form of the sound could just be distinguished from the noise of countless reverberations, as though the essence of the mournful measure was locked in the crystalline memory of the salt formations that had been mined from the walls of the caverns for hundreds of years. It would not have surprised the creator of that sound if it were so. After all, for eight years, after work hours in the mines were completed each day, he had shaped the sound from his instrument of wooden frame and copper string.  
  
The piece was Tchaikovsky's 'Swan Lake, Danse' for single violin, an old acquaintance of the player. He played it for memory, from memory, even at public occasions like the upcoming May Day _Tag der Arbeit_ festival. If only the owners of the _Salzbergewerk_, the famous salt mines of Berchtesgaden, knew that humble Tomas von Seeckt from Pomerania used to sit a different chair than as Evening Manager of the mines.  
  
Second chair, in fact, on the New Koenigsberg Symphony Orchestra, Side 3, Duchy of Zeon. His talents, however, did not lay solely in music, and his accomplishments in that position paled in comparison to what he could do in the command chair of a _Gouf_ mobile suit.  
  
Reinhardt von Seydlitz was one with the violin, and the memories. His fingers moved of an accord all their own, the bow slicing across the strings with the elegance of a lover, but the power of a man possessed. No note was missed, no time interrupted. To do anything else would scar the memory, and that was what drove him, and had driven him, for eight long years. Patience was the key, but not forgetfulness. The time would come, as he knew it would.  
  
Von Seydlitz remembered the retreat from Metz with all the clarity now than when it first happened. He remembered the weeks in the wintry Alps, as the remains of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ Division, eighteen mobile suits, eluded detection by their Federation enemy. He remembered arriving in this far corner of upper Bavaria, to rendezvous with the last three operational mobile suits of the 555th 'Triple-Nickel' Airborne Battalion, as arranged. Most of the _Zakus_, and his own _Gouf_, had not survived the transit through the harsh Alps, but the pilots had been saved, and von Seydlitz's team had arrived in the wilderness of Obersalzberg with four mobile suits, crammed full of Zeon soldiers.   
  
But Commander Karl Weissdrake had not failed him then, as von Seydlitz had known he would not. Of all the mistakes made in Operation Lorelei, sacking Zurich was not one of them.  
  
All that gold had proven very useful. Its power was such that bribes were issued, papers forged, residences leased, and the last survivors of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ were well-established German nationals instead of renegade Zeon soldiers. With a quickly-garnered education, most of the men had even become very skilled salt miners. For eight years, no one had come looking for them here, in this secluded corner of Germania, and von Seydlitz knew after 0083 that they never would. Even the gold was untraceable now, since no one in Zurich would ever admit it was missing, because for over two hundred years the Suisse Bank had maintained that they did not have it.   
  
_Old gold tells all kinds of tales, especially when stamped with the symbol and measure of the hated Third Reich. It was better this way, using the spoils of swine to a nobler end than laundering it a credit's worth at a time in bottles of Goldschlaeger cinnamon schnapps._ That irony did not fail to be noticed.  
  
Obersalzberg had been General von Mellenthin's idea of a contingency plan, and it was near perfect in scope. Not even the residents of Berchtesgaden, where most of the 10th lived and worked, realized the serpent in their midst. Why should they suspect anything? With the melting pot that Europe had become under the Earth Federation, it did not even matter if you were not a speaker of _deutsch_, though it definitely opened doors if you were capable. Besides, no community in Central Europe would blink an eye at fit and able men moving into their area. With the devastation of the Zeon War of Independence and the horrendous cost of life, finding good help had been problematic.  
  
It was now 0087, and von Seydlitz was 29 years old. For eight years they had been here, integrated in the local culture and society, biding their time. Von Seydlitz knew that Germania would always be the Fatherland, as it had been for most of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_'s higher officers and NCOs. New Koenigsberg, a Bunch colony within Side 3, was the Motherland, populated by Germans almost 100 years ago. The Fatherland would never change, be it under the Federation or the Romans, but the Motherland lay oppressed by a false independence, brought to heel out of fear of the Titans and Earth.  
  
But their time would come. It had taken all of von Seydlitz's speaking skills to stop his men from rallying behind Admiral Delaz and Operation Stardust in 0083. Logic won in the end, and the 10th's masquerade continued, for despite Delaz's success in ridiculing the Federation, it had cost him everything and almost everyone who'd followed him was dead, including Anavel 'Nightmare of Solomon' Gato, a very successful Zeon ace from long-dead Vice Admiral Dozul Zavi's Space Assault Corps. Survivors had made themselves a nuisance to Earth for years after Stardust, but their anger was feeble compared to the staggering might of the Titans, and few had ever struck anything more than a glancing blow at the hated oppressors.  
  
Von Seydlitz knew the time was not yet right, even before Stardust began. Not until Axis moved back into the Earth Sphere would Zeon ever rise again. The Motherland had grown too comfortable being the 'Republic' of Zeon, a puppet land ruled by the Titans and Earth. Von Seydlitz grimaced at the thought of going back now. Trading in exile for slavery was hardly a better breakfast than a dog's.   
  
Besides, the seed of Operation Nemesis had not yet borne fruit. Once it ripened . . .then the Federation would be made to pay for its corruption and crimes against humanity. Whether it took ten years or ten thousand, von Seydlitz and the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ would be revenged, and Earth would know what it was to face the wrath of the superior race.  
  
The violin bow ceased its movements, and the music stopped, as von Seydlitz heard a soft knock at the door of his office, and smelled the salt tinge of one of his men. He turned his head towards the door as Lieutenant Anton Dalyev saluted. "Yes, _Oberleutnant_?"  
  
"Apologies for disturbing you, Colonel. We're getting a long-range message from _Sternn_," replied the younger soldier, still wearing the leather overalls and lantern helmet of a salt miner, with white streaks of pure salt scratched across the surface of the black leather. Dalyev was one of von Seydlitz's original troops, under his direct command in the 358th 'Unsullied' Light Assault Battalion. He was accustomed to von Seydlitz's habits (like the one about using German to designate ranks) and moods.  
  
After a moment of thoughtful silence, von Seydlitz stood to his full 6'3" height, placing the violin carefully inside its case on the desk, and then closing it with a snap. Dalyev watched his face carefully, trying to read the phlegmatic Colonel's expression, but only the barest hint of a smile formed on his lips. Even an occasion such as this one was not enough to crack the Prussian inscrutability that von Seydlitz radiated in all matters. Dalyev let a smile form on his own lips as he turned to follow his commander into the caverns.  
  
The 10th, despite their safety from Federation eyes, had not been idling away their time. Deep within the salt mines, a sublevel had been constructed, originally for deeper digs, but had gone unused for decades. The Zeon, under the watchful eye of their resident 'engineer', Lieutenant Lucien McKenna of the 22nd 'Onslaught' Marine Battalion, had stripped a _Zaku_ of its Minovsky reactor and placed it deep within the bowels of the salt mines. The reactor served as the power plant for the string of computers and simulator equipment that von Seydlitz had purchased with a fraction of the gold taken from Zurich. It was also the power source for another McKenna innovation, a very sensitive short-wave frequency radio.   
  
During the war, with the level of Minovsky radiation that rendered radio waves useless on the battlefield, it had become something of a hobby to study other possible ways of long-distance communications. Not very many experiments worked as well as the vibration-powered "skin-talk" method, but McKenna had become rather enamored of the range a good short-wave radio could generate with enough power, provided Minovsky particles were not present in the path of the signal. Short-wave was not used much anymore, by anything, though _Deutsche Welle_ still broadcast on 11985 kHz. McKenna had discovered that by "piggybacking" another short-wave signal a mere fraction of a frequency from the original, it could be transmitted without detection as a "ghost" signal within the actual transmission, similar to what occurred when two cellular phones got carried on the same channel to two different receivers. Add in a filter program run from a computer, and you had a radio signal with a range of thousands of kilometers that in a Minovsky radiation-free environment could allow you to chat with another person without detection by any of the Federation's frequency snoopers. They rarely checked short-wave bandwidths, anyway.  
  
While the transmitter was, by necessity, a short-wave job, the receiver under the mountain was pure legitimacy: a cell site situated on the outskirts of the mountain carried the incoming lower-frequency signal straight to a simple cellular speakerphone, attached to the wall near the short-wave transmitter box. Using two separate wavelengths would make it even harder for the 'Eardrum' Federation satellites to detect them. Even if the signals were collected for analysis, it would take an absolutely genius analyst to discover that the two totally different signals were related to one another. Security was worth the awkwardness of communication.  
  
Von Seydlitz noted that this signal was being carried on 9455 kHz, which meant it was being broadcast simultaneously with Voice of America. The Foxe twins, Privates Royce and Bryce Foxe of the 555th 'Triple-Nickel' Airborne Battalion, were on operations duty this evening. He decided to allow them to remain, knowing that curiosity gnawed at them as well. Dalyev stood off to the side, ears alert.   
  
A voice was being generated from a speaker on the wall, very fuzzy but audible. "_Habicht, hier ist Sternn! Geh doch mal ran, bitte sehr!_"  
  
Von Seydlitz toggled a switch, not phased for a moment by the almost-playful tone of the speaker, yelling at him to pick up the phone. "_Hier ist Habicht. Was gibt's Neues?_" he asked '_Sternn_', who spoke enough German to know that von Seydlitz wanted an update.  
  
The laugh on the other end was so jovial it was almost psychotic. Von Seydlitz could not help but grimace. _Sternn_, or 'meteor', had been up there for a very long time, by himself. Von Seydlitz, being _Habicht_, or 'hawk', began to wonder if the air supply had begun to cut out on him.  
  
"Reinhardt, baby, my pal, my buddy, my all-time favorite _Oberst_! Break out the champagne and get ready for a party!" spoke the voice of the man that von Seydlitz had sent to collect the fruit of the seeds of Operation Nemesis, an ace pilot and commander of the 15th 'Tyrant Tornadoes' Fast Attack Battalion. He was also von Seydlitz's second-oldest friend, a fellow New Koenigsberger, and the man everyone who knew of their past relationship must have been the direct foil of the Colonel in their own closeness to General von Mellenthin. They had all grown up together in the same house, after all.  
  
Von Seydlitz sighed audibly. "Is it at all possible for you to maintain some semblance of decorum while on a military operation, _Kommandant_?" He spoke as though it had not been four years, three months, and 13 days since last hearing the all-too familiar boyish drawl on the other end of the transmission. Friend he may have been, but von Seydlitz often wondered what he had been thinking so many years ago when saving the life of the manic soul on the other end of the radio.   
  
Especially considering that soul would probably never grow up.  
  
A hissing, spitting sound emanated from the speaker, and von Seydlitz knew that the younger man had just blown a raspberry at the radio. "Still as stuffy as ever, _mein Freund_? Margul must be there or something. Okay, then, I guess you'll have to wait until I'm planetside again to bust me down to a lowly Master Sergeant. Unless you want me to take these pretty toys back and keep the gold from the refund for myself. Hazard pay gets steep, you know."  
  
Von Seydlitz had been about to comment that _Hauptfeldwebel_ was about three ranks too high an estimate for how far he would break his old associate down, but squelched it at the mention of 'toys'. "Have you accomplished your mission, _Kommandant_?"  
  
"You bet I have, sir," was the almost-gleeful response. The Foxe twins glanced at each other in eagerness, and then looked at Dalyev, who grinned at them. "I've got enough gear in this tub to make even 'Black Eagle' von Seydlitz dance a jig. Or maybe just the Funky Chicken."  
  
Von Seydlitz's left hand clenched into a fist as he spoke into the transmitter again. "Estimated time of arrival on Terra?"  
  
"Tomorrow night if my scheme works, and it will. I'll be depositing this crate in the vicinity of _Kehlsteinberge_, so leave out milk, cookies, and preferably some IR spotlights as a guide beacon. I'll be moving _really_ fast, so please don't miss me."  
  
"I do not presume you are going to inform me of exactly how you intend to get a transport vessel of that mass into Terra's atmosphere without alerting the Federation to your presence?"  
  
"Negative, Colonel. I'd hate to not make a flashy entrance. Don't sweat it, Reinhardt. I haven't been up here with nothing but me for company for nothing. Opportunity has finally appeared, and the timing is just right," Von Seydlitz could feel the smirk from the far side of the conversation. "Besides, with all the trouble the Titans have been having trying to keep everything straight with the AEUG after that Side 1 gassing, they'll never notice little ol' me cruising in through the holes they've left in their patrols. It's kosher as Christmas, Colonel. I'll be back to teach you how to laugh again in no time at all."  
  
"Make certain I have something to laugh about, _Kommandant_. _Habicht abstelle_."  
  
"_Tschuess_, _Oberst_." The transmission terminated with the flick of Royce Foxe's hand.  
  
Von Seydlitz whirled on Dalyev. "_Oberleutnant_ Dalyev, summon the commanders! I want them all in my office immediately! Starting now, we are on the road to going home, and no one, not the Federation nor the Titans themselves will stop us! Go now!!"  
  
The startled Dalyev fled the tactical room at top speed. Von Seydlitz marched back towards his office, and his violin. When 'Swan Lake' sounded through the caverns again, it was played in such a fashion that it seemed less a dirge and more like a march, the music betraying the emotions its player would not.  
  
Operation Nemesis was now in full swing, though its fate still rested on the collection of twisted genetics and matrimonial oddities that had graced Humanity and the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ with the Zeon ace pilot with the bizarre name of Commander Antares de la Somme.

**60,000 km Above Norway, Outer Van Allen Belt  
April 30, 0087**  
  
A gloved finger mashed down on the OFF button of the cellular telephone, then simply flung it away. Antares de la Somme was unconcerned for where it went after he released it to float away in the vacuum. It was tethered to his ship by a length of tensile copper wiring, so it was not going anywhere far. Story of his life for these last few years, but a cell phone was not so vitally important as patience was.  
  
Cruising in roughly a southward course above Scandinavia, the commercial bulk freighter _S.S. Non Sequitor_ continued on at a leisurely inertial speed for yet another long-range orbit. De la Somme knew he was pretty much not alone out here, but no one, not even the Titans, would confuse this bucket as anything but a freighter. Slow and ungainly, with a tiny crew cabin attached to a massive flat cargo section and three mammoth Minovsky boosters, _Non Sequitor_ was a warship in the same sense that de la Somme was a tailor.  
  
Antares de la Somme was definitely not a tailor.  
  
He sighed, then yawned lazily, the sound echoing strangely inside his helmet, as he settled back into the lawnchair he'd bolted to the roof above the crew cabin. Having been up here, in this ship, for several weeks, he decided that if he stayed in _Non Sequitor_ the entire time, he'd go insane. Besides, no Zeon feared space and lived for long, not after having been born in the darkness without end. To make matters better, sitting outside the ship offered opportunities no place else in the universe could afford to. For one thing, it was hard to star-tan while encased in a bulkhead. De la Somme began "star-tanning" during the time he'd been one of Vice Admiral Dozul Zavi's Space Assault Corps troopers, lounging in the palm of his _Zaku's_ hand after blowing apart Federation starships and fighters. His tour in space had not been long, as von Mellenthin had promised so long ago when he'd bet against the odds and won. De la Somme had been the prize of victory, more so than Berlin had been.  
  
Another benefit to being out in space was that it was very quiet, very private, and usually without interruption. This gave one an excellent venue with which to talk to God, if so inclined. De la Somme had picked up the habit to keep his sanity while alone up here. God did not seem to mind him blathering at Him, so de la Somme did so at every possible opportunity. De la Somme had a lot to say and a lot to talk about.  
  
His take on conversing with the Almighty was not like a supplicant to a higher Lord, but more akin to a child talking to a father or an older sibling. De la Somme had had plenty of evidence in his 24 years to suggest that he was, if not personally God, at the very least a very big piece of His plan. This fact granted him special dispensation to talk to God whenever he damn well pleased, and God was obliged to listen to him jabber.  
  
"Hey, God, it's me again. You remember, the rising star You've been taking care of since I was little. It's going to get rough on this side of Heaven again, and I'm not going to ask You to get the whole thing right, but at least let me get this scow I'm hitching on down to Terra, so that Zeon can once again punish the transgressors of Your Earth and cleanse it so that the Light You promised Humanity can shine and Your glory can be known to all who doubt Your Word and Way. You've made us the instruments of Your will, God, so let's get the calibration straight, okay? Chat with You later. Go visit some misery on the Feds until I get down there tomorrow with all this wicked steel and inflict misery on them for You."  
  
That was about the gist of the conversation every evening. De la Somme crossed his fingers behind his helmet and leaned back, staring at the star field beyond Earth's zenith. Luna was off to starboard, ever-looking like a battered softball. In the far distance, Side 4 and its colonies glimmered like candles in a darkened window. Luna II and the Titans were on the far side of Terra, where de la Somme wanted them. Everything else out here was either planets or distant stars. De la Somme only really felt kinship with the stars.  
  
His beard, unshaved for months, began to itch again. He muttered under his breath some rather vile implications of what he was going to do with his hair once he got down to Terra. Not that cutting it was going to really improve his looks. Von Seydlitz had always called him "the best nonregulation-looking soldier in the division." He'd also called him a lot of other things, and had since he was small. De la Somme had never minded the older von Seydlitz picking on him. After all, God had brought von Seydlitz, and von Mellenthin for that matter, to de la Somme to save him from Fate itself so many years ago. Since that time, de la Somme had been their devoted follower, in a way no one else could comprehend.  
  
No one but those two had ever seen de la Somme truly terrified, ever shed a tear, or voice a doubt or concern, and they never spoke of the times that he had to anyone else. De la Somme would follow von Seydlitz and von Mellenthin into Hell itself for that. That did not mean he'd make their lives any easier, of course. He called the unusually-charismatic von Mellenthin "Deet", his old shortened version of "Dietrich". He called the utterly impassive von Seydlitz "baby". Von Mellenthin would laugh it off, while von Seydlitz would often grind his teeth together and plot revenge. De la Somme could not help but slip into a fit of giggling at the face von Seydlitz would make whenever he did that.  
  
He was still chuckling to himself when his hyperaccurate eyes and perception caught sight of one of the stars in the darkness without end staring back at him. His squinted, holding a hand up to his helmet to concentrate the light where he needed it to go. The star was getting bigger, and de la Somme had a pretty good idea of what it was.  
  
As it got closer, he grinned. "Looky what we have here. What's a bad girl like you doing in a place like this?"  
  
Closing in on the position of the _Non Sequitor_ was an AEUG _Salamis Kai_-class frigate, braving the Titans patrols in and near Side 4. De la Somme figured it was probably heading back to Luna after taking a look-see at the Titans at Luna II.  
  
De la Somme stood up from his lawnchair with the grace of a man so accustomed to moving in space it was instinctual, then stretched until his spine popped. His Velcro-bottomed boots caught the mass of fuzz he'd glued across the bulkhead in a trail that led back to the ingress-egress airlock. The weights laced throughout his spacesuit to prevent muscle atrophy did not hinder his movements. After casually walking a few feet, he grabbed a tightly-rolled tube of laminate plastic and began to unroll it, whistling as he worked and watching the _Salamis Kai_ like a shark.  
  
The AEUG ship would pass from his port bow, and it would be close. De la Somme unrolled the plastic sheet with a casual flick of his wrists, letting the lack of gravity and the forward inertia of the _Non Sequitor_ finish the process. There was about eighty feet of laminate, five feet wide. The paper contained within the tube was bright silver, emblazoned with red lettering, which de la Somme proudly displayed as a big streaming banner.  
  
It read "**HONK IF YOU THINK TITANS GIVE THE BEST HEAD IN THE EARTH SPHERE!!**"  
  
A flashing spotlight signaled back from the _Salamis Kai_, blinking out a Morse message, which de la Somme could translate in his sleep. The AEUG reply was "Would-honk-if-not-for-the-crotchrot. Take-care-and-penicillin."  
  
De la Somme smiled at that, his right hand giving a thumbs-up at the AEUG ship as it crossed his T, then sped past to its destination. His left hand, the one holding the stick the banner was attached to, was giving the departing vessel the finger.  
  
_Later, traitors,_ he thought angrily, knowing many Zeon were members of the AEUG. _Like the old song says, 'I-I-I don't need you.' Zeon's true sons will show you how to fight a war, and with God on our side, how can we lose?_  
  
Re-rolling the banner around the stick, de la Somme decided he'd star-tanned enough today. There'd be another chance tomorrow. And after tomorrow, there would be so much more to do. Von Seydlitz would be there when he landed, and it would be nice to see his older foster brother again.  
  
He hoped von Mellenthin would be there when he started to walk again.   
  
**Mannheim, Hessen, Central Europe  
April 30, 0087**  
  
It had been a hideous structure since Old Calendar 1945, standing on the outskirts of the city of Mannheim, defying Time and War that would destroy all things around it. The paint was fading into a pale off-white instead of the drab green-brown it used to be, but its stones lost none of their hardness. Neither, for that matter, did the people who were forced to dwell within its walls.  
  
The Mannheim Military Penitentiary had housed the most awful war criminals from nearly every European conflict after World War II. Originally, it was a halfway point, used to keep prisoners until they were transported to whatever new form of hell they were assigned to. It later became a permanent residence for military convicts. After the establishment of the Earth Federation, its use had been expanded to include death row inmates, molesters, and mass-murderers. Fiends from all walks of unlawful behavior were represented in the General Population of this dire fortress of despair, incarceration, and eventual extermination. In the midst of all this contained hatred were the military prisoners, noted from their less-disciplined fellow inmates by their solid manner, commanding bearing, cleaner wardrobe, and an absolute intolerance of violation of whatever of their "personal space" they could maintain in a place where unless you were in solitary confinement, you could never be alone.  
  
Sodomy had been a commonplace trait of prisons since the first criminal was thrown in the slam, but not in Mannheim. Rape in all its forms, save those convicted of it while on active duty, was a relative newcomer to the premises. With the new inmates, a new horror had reared its head, to spread itself throughout the ever-swelling population of prisoners, and an ambience of fear followed in its path. However, immortal Rapine had never counted on the fight its followers would find once introduced into a place where the professional killers lay their heads. The military prisoners reacted violently in the presence of unwanted sexual attention, and it became a necessity if you were looking for a little forced attention to bring a gang with you to subdue the victim.  
  
It could be said that sex criminals are a tenacious lot, so no one got off completely unmolested, even if they did manage to fend off their would-be rapists. This category included the convicted military prisoners of the One-Year War, mostly captive Zeon, whose morale was already at a dangerous low, and whose willpower was similarly beaten down. Over a period of four months, over a hundred Zeon soldiers were cycled into the waiting arms of a form of torment they were not prepared to face. Some fought their way into a type of "sanctuary", when the cost of trying to subdue them was more than the rape-gangs were willing to continue to pay to try. Others were not so fortunate, but despite their dishonor, they vowed and instituted revenge on their own terms. The guards, all Federation soldiers, turned their heads, so long as the sexual deviants preyed only on the prisoners and not on them, despite the drastic increase in aggravated assaults, batteries, and prisoner deaths. This system had been in place for eight years.  
  
There was one exception to the rule, the crown jewel of the One-Year War prisoners, the one who was convicted on over a hundred counts of mass-murder and gross misconduct against civilians during time of war. The Federation military tribunal had sentenced him to seventy consecutive life sentences, without hope of parole, for his crimes against the population of Earth, not even giving him the death penalty to cut him any slack. No form of punishment save trapping him on Terra was considered harsh enough to wipe away the horror this man had visited on Minsk, Berlin, Prague, Zurich, Luxembourg, Paris, and Metz. With the hammer of a gavel, a three hour-long van ride while in chains, and the slam of a cell door, Major-General Dietrich von Mellenthin arrived at the only home he would know for the rest of his living days, and some thereafter.  
  
Von Mellenthin was the only person in the prison who had a cell all to himself. The Federation guards wanted him to have as little private contact with anyone, especially former Zeon soldiers, as possible to arrange. Nevertheless, when he'd first arrived the chance to get into the pants of a Zeon General was too great a temptation for all but the most controlled and perceptive sex offender, many of whom had lost much to the Zeon during the War. Those who were not enamored of the idea of breaking von Mellenthin in were the ones who'd seen him when he first came into Gen-Pop. Even after trading in his smoke-gray and gold uniform for the bright green and barcoded prison uniform, this was not a man who'd lost his ability to fight, or kill. His eyes, while an object of desire for the rape-gangs, told volumes about the amount of torment this man could inflict upon those who displeased him. The wise went after easier prey.  
  
The first attempt occurred in the shower room. There were six of them, and only two who were not: von Mellenthin and another former Zeon soldier, a special forces commando from the 14th Division. The two soldiers backed themselves to the far wall and turned the facing showerheads to a temperature more suited to boiling eggs than cleaning flesh. Their assailants fled with second-degree burns, and von Mellenthin and his ally walked out with pride intact.  
  
The soldier spread the word with the other Zeon prisoners that von Mellenthin was in Mannheim, and who he was. After that, while in Gen-Pop von Mellenthin was never without military escort.  
  
The Federation guards noticed the sudden change. Before von Mellenthin's arrival, the military prisoners had been almost lackluster in dress, in stance, and in discipline. Better than the other prisoners, always, but not up to par with their former profession. When von Mellenthin arrived in 0081, after his grueling year-long war crimes trial, his mere presence changed all of that. The Zeon ate in their own sector of the mess hall, exercised together in the yard, and generally stayed away from the rest of the prisoners. At their center was von Mellenthin, whose pleasant voice, ease of laughter, and willingness to discuss anything under or around the Sun was infectious.  
  
This scared the piss out of the warden, a former Federation infantry Captain named Grissom, who considered putting von Mellenthin into solitary confinement until he died. The only thing that stopped him was that von Mellenthin was not breaking any of the rules. He was not even indulging in the prison black market, much less inciting a riot. Like it or not, Grissom had to admit he was the model prisoner, despite the cult of personality he was forming around himself. Something had to be done, but Grissom was at a loss to figure out what. While he warred with his indecision, his tame military prisoners were learning what it were to be the bearers of the pride of soldiers again.  
  
After Delaz's uprising in late 0083, Grissom had anticipated a full-scale war cooking off in his prison. He tripled the guards throughout the debacle of Stardust, and even had a team of GMs stationed outside the complex. But nothing happened except for a sudden monopoly of news stations on every radio and television, with every Zeon soldier in Gen-Pop glued to each set like raptors watching an injured animal die, silent in their concentration. When it was all over, and the colony had fallen in North America, the Zeon prisoners simply went back to their routines. Any tears they may have shed for the Delaz Fleet were shed in solitude. None of them would even talk about it.  
  
When the Titans formed after Stardust, their jurisdiction applied to all former Zeon, including prisoners of war. The Titans representative had appeared at the prison once in the five years of the group's assembly, and he had been shocked at the state the Zeon prisoners, and von Mellenthin, were in. Instead of a cluster of broken criminals, he found military discipline and a solid group community that was as stable as the foundation the building stood upon. Enraged, he overruled Grissom's protests and began instituting some changes to Mannheim. The GMs, newly painted black, became a permanent fixture, along with a tanker truck or two fitted with pumps that bore Biohazard warning labels and the letters "CoCl^2" on the tanks. Without a care for consequences, he ordered von Mellenthin isolated from Gen-Pop, and his "army" stripped from him. That was when the second attempt occurred.  
  
When the weather did not permit prisoners to exercise outdoors, there was an enclosed weight room within the prison structure itself. The Titans representative had the indoor room cordoned off by a platoon of guards, then let eight sex offenders into the weight room, with von Mellenthin alone inside it. The truncheons and guns of the guards, to allow what would happen to happen without outside interference, locked out his own people. The Federals had expected a riot. What they got was a massacre.  
  
Von Mellenthin had been hitting the weights religiously, several hours a day, since his arrival, and had managed to build his strength and size accordingly in preparation for just this eventuality. To make matters even more dangerous, he had been a champion bare-knuckle boxer for his weight division while attending Gross-Lichterfelde Academy on New Koenigsberg. These traits, coupled with the amount of raw steel lying about the room, enabled the 'Hessian Lion' to savage the hyenas quite well. When he emerged from the interior of the room to face the crowd several minutes later, he had blood on his hands, blood on his clothes, blood on his shoes, blood in his eyes, and a blood- and hair-covered lifting bar in his hands. That landed a dozen people in the infirmary (two died of internal injuries), and von Mellenthin in solitary for a month. The other Zeon prisoners were ready to name him the reincarnation of Giren Zavi, if not Zeon Daikun himself, after that feat of prowess. He had overcome the obstacles and emerged victorious, and even the month in solitary failed to break his resolve. No other incidents had occurred since that last time, and the Zeon had kept their own counsel, and their noses clean, since.  
  
In 0085, when the Titans gassed Side 1's 30 Bunch colony, they held a silent vigil for an hour. The Federation guards, and the other prisoners, looked on in utter confusion.  
  
It was not the carnage of the weight room that stopped the jackals from making another attempt, nor was it the threat of retaliation by a large group of former soldiers. It was what became a custom at dinner sometime in late 0085, when a badly-maintained baby grand piano turned up in a long-unexplored storage room in an abandoned wing of the third floor. It had been there since 1988, Old Calendar reckoning, apparently a gift for a former warden by a superior officer from one of the other foreign military hegemonies that had been responsible for the prison. Von Mellenthin petitioned Grissom for the privilege of restoring it and placing it in the mess hall, the first time the Zeon General had ever asked for anything from the Federation overseers. Not seeing any harm in a hobby, Grissom acquiesced to the request. It took the combined efforts of a dozen men, the woodshop, a guard willing to accept bribes to garner wire (a controlled substance if there ever was one in prison), ivory (false, of course), and screws, and von Mellenthin's knowledge an entire year to get the thing restored and re-tuned to perfect sound quality. It also took that dozen men, and von Mellenthin, to lift the thing bodily down three flights of narrow steel steps and to its new home, under supervision by their Federation guards.  
  
That evening, in late 0086, amidst the jeers and catcalls by the non-military prisoners, Dietrich von Mellenthin sat down at the piano and began to play. Slowly, as the music began to build and flow through the mess hall, the hurled insults went silent, one voice at a time, until the only sounds to be heard were the clatters of trays and utensils in time to Mozart's 'Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, Allegro', performed live by a Zeon General for the benefit of prisoners and guards alike.  
  
After that, it became a custom for dinner music to be played, and von Mellenthin was a master of the piano. He even took requests, from anybody. He tapped out the miniscule prison library for every piece of music and score he could acquire. The rest he played from memory, apologizing if a piece was requested that he did not know.  
  
His chair had been First for piano in the New Koenigsberg Symphony Orchestra.  
  
It was now April 0087, and the last evening before _Tag der Arbeit_, the traditional Labor Day for Germans. As usual, Dietrich von Mellenthin was on the piano, banging out the selection of this session with his usual precision fervor while the prisoners fed and the guards watched and listened.  
  
The piece was 'Swan Lake, Danse', by Tchaikovsky, for single piano.  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 2

**MSG: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed **

**Chapter 2  
  
Duisberg, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe  
May 1, 0087**  
  
_It's so typical,_ thought Rudi Leiger as he settled his large frame down into his equally-large chair. He had not been in his office three minutes after getting back from a very pleasant, albeit late, lunch when the Line 1 light began blinking on the telephone. It had to be his wife. Only she could successfully ruin his digestion on command. Inhaling deeply, he reached a bony finger over and mashed on the button. "Yes?"  
  
The face that appeared on the small screen was, amazingly, not the shrewish visage of his wife of twenty-three years, but rather the mousy features that belonged to Hans Josef Biebel, the regional charterer for _Rhein-, Maas-, und See Schiffahrtskontor GmbH_, the company that Rudi owned.  
  
"Hans? How pleasant to hear from you! What's the occasion?" asked Rudi, smiling in genuine honesty. He'd always liked the little man. Professional paper-pushers who knew what they were doing were hard to come by.  
  
Biebel was sweating slightly. "_Guten Tag_, Rudi. I didn't mean to call you today, but a matter of great import has suddenly appeared, and I fear I haven't the authority to negotiate something like this."  
  
Rudi's lips turned downward, and his brow furrowed in question. Biebel had the authority to charter any of their ships for transit anywhere in Europe. "What are you talking about, Hans? Explain."  
  
"I think you'd better take this call personally, Rudi. I'll transfer him over to you now. It's audio only, so it may be a crank, but he asked for you personally, and if it's not a joke---I'll let him tell you about it."   
  
"Patch it through, then," confirmed Rudi, his curiosity rising. Hans Josef Biebel's face disappeared, and the Line 2 light illuminated. He pressed it with only a minor hesitation. "This is Leiger. How may I be of service to you?"  
  
"That I will detail in a short time," spoke the voice from the other end of the phone.  
  
_Strange accent,_ thought Rudi, trying to place it. _Bavarian? No, further north. . .Thueringian, perhaps._  
  
The voice continued. "I am of a mind to make you very rich, _Herr_ Leiger, provided you can follow instructions implicitly, with a high degree of discretion. Are you able to do these things?"  
  
"Who are you?" demanded Rudi, angered that anyone would believe him incapable of keeping to a contract. _RMS Schiffahrtskontor GmbH_ had not been in business for three hundred years by violating terms of contract.   
  
"Ah, my apologies. I introduced myself to your charter manager, and I presumed he had given you my name. I am Ernst Schwarzeidechse, and I represent a concern that wishes to charter a number of your vessels for a medium-term contract."  
  
"We are in that line of business, _Herr_ Schwarzeidechse. Could you give me the specifics on what it is you need?"  
  
The voice spoke again, "Are you alone in your office?"   
  
"_Ja_."  
  
"Then here are the specifics. I am in need of three 1000-ton draft cargo vessels, rated for IMO-1 and IMO-5 hazardous material capacity. If you wish me to be more specific, I am in need of _RMS Westfalia, RMS Duisberg_, and _RMS Ruhrort_, all of which are available now without delay. Before you begin, I realize that none of those three ships are IMO rated. You must make them so, and with speed."  
  
Rudi stuttered for a moment. "M-May I ask what it is you're needing carried?"  
  
The voice laughed. "Some rather dirty chemicals from the Time of Division have cropped up again in Sachsen-Anhalt. We need them removed. It's a few short tons of weapons-grade phosphates and several hundred tons of ammonium nitrates. Rate one of the ships for IMO-1 and the other two for IMO-5 and that should be sufficient to transport these loathsome substances to their intended destination."  
  
"Certainly, but why the secrecy? This is a simple enough matter."  
  
"My concern recently had an altercation on a site with some environmental extremists. The case was ruled in favor of us in court, but with this new discovery. . .you know what happens then. At any rate, the substances have been trucked to Regensburg, but they must be shipped via rivers for their final destination in Heidelberg. Hence, the necessary subterfuges."  
  
Rudi sat back in his chair, contemplating. This whole thing smelled of criminal activity. Only one way to find out for sure. "You realize, of course, that this will not only take time, but money, and not small amounts of it."   
  
"Of what? Money, or time?"  
  
"Both."   
  
"Money is negotiable. Time is not. This must be done at the earliest possible convenience."  
  
"It will take days just to figure up the monetary amount."  
  
"My concern tables an offer of three million credits, with another possible two million or more in queue if the ships are prepared and arrive in Regensburg on schedule."  
  
For the first time in his business career, Rudi Leiger was struck completely speechless. His mind, however, was more than capable of screaming. _Three MILLION? Plus another two million later? Who ARE these people?_  
  
The voice continued without missing a beat. "I will be in Duisberg tomorrow morning. Shall we meet and discuss it at length and in person?"  
  
Rudi blinked. "That would be. . . perfectly fine, _Herr_ Schwarzeidechse. Say about ten in the morning?"  
  
"Ten in the morning. I will see you in your office then, _Herr_ Leiger. _Auf Wiederhoeren_."  
  
The phone clicked off at that, leaving Rudi Leiger wondering just what he'd gotten himself into this time.  
  
**Indianapolis, Indiana, North America  
May 1, 0087**  
  
"That's impossible!" snorted Sales Manager Fred Barnes. "No one wants that many Model 908s!"  
  
"This guy does," explained the weary clerk on shift at Magnetic Instrumentation, Inc., supplier of field and laboratory instruments on a worldwide basis. It was eight in the morning and already there was someone on the line with an order so insane it could not be a trick.  
  
"Where's this asshole at?"  
  
"Munich. He wants 90 Model 908 Gaussmeters, several thousand meters of 1000-kilogauss Hall Effect Probes, and a Model ML-400D MagLab with a multi-signal adaptor. What'm I supposed to tell him? We've got it all in stock, and it's not like they're flying off the shelves."  
  
"Yeah, yeah," said Barnes, "but in Munich, Germany? What does he want them for?"   
  
"Why don't you ask him?" muttered the clerk, exasperated with his superior. "He's on the phone now."  
  
The clerk passed the receiver over, then watched as Sales Manager Barnes filled out a sheet with an order for 90 Model 908 Gaussmeters, with the multiple thousand yards of Hall Effect Probes, and the MagLab, all to be shipped posthaste to an address in Munich, Germany, to a man named Wolfram La Vesta from the _Bundespublikwerk_. Whatever it was they were looking for, it was apparently very big and very discreet, but their credit card number took the (substantial) amount entered into it without blinking, so it had to be a government job.   
  
The stockworkers began preparing the boxes for shipment in the morning. They would arrive in Munich in seven days, which suited Mr. La Vesta just fine.  
  
**Geismar, Louisiana, North America  
May 1 , 0087**  
  
Other than the fact that it was a private message, the rest of the text was fairly unassuming. That, and the fact that it came out of nowhere, instantly made Herbert Jenkins extraordinarily nervous. He only ever got into IRC conversations to talk about chemicals with weirdoes who blundered into his chatroom, but this sounded like a business proposition.  
  
_10PzK: Are you interested in a trade?   
HerbieJ: What sort of trade?  
10PzK: Elemental white phosphorus.  
HerbieJ: Nice try j/k. What you got to trade for it?  
10Pzk: How much white phosphorus do you have available?  
10PzK: Or is this not the same Herbert Jenkins of Rhodia Chemicals, Ltd.?  
HerbieJ: That's me.  
HerbieJ: I've got 35,000 short tons available for distribution.  
10PzK: Are you authorized to deal?   
  
Of course I'm authorized to deal, nimrod_, thought Jenkins angrily. It was only HIS company.  
  
_HerbieJ: I think I can work something out.  
HerbieJ: Standard cost is 1.25 per pound._  
  
Whoever 10PzK was, they took a long time getting back to that one. Jenkins lit a cigarette and began to wonder why they'd need white phosphorus. Nasty stuff, that.  
  
He never thought to wonder how they knew who he was. That information was public record under the properties of the chatroom.  
  
_10PzK: So at 2.75 per kilogram, 10 short tons would ultimately cost 12,100.  
HerbieJ: That's company rate. Open market gets pricier. Do you represent a company?  
10PzK: Oh, yes.  
10PzK: How much will 10 short tons cost at 2.75 per kilogram, with the addition of 4 short tons of organic salts for trade? _

_  
_Ten short tons of white phosphorus? That was an incredible amount of phosphorus. The organic salts were not hard to come by on the market, but not many were willing to use it for trade.

_  
HerbieJ: How does 9,800 sound to you?  
10PzK: Eminently fair. How soon can you ship them?  
HerbieJ: Where am I shipping them to?  
10PzK: Air transit in closed-cylinder containers to Bad Reichenhall, Germany.  
HerbieJ: White phosphorus is a controlled substance due to its properties. Getting the paperwork from Germany alone will take three weeks.  
10PzK: I possess the paperwork, which will arrive with the payment and the organic salts. How soon can you ship them?  
  
Hmm,_ thought Jenkins, _a fast mover.  
  
HerbieJ: Two weeks, minimum.  
10PzK: Unacceptable. One week, maximum.  
HerbieJ: That's not possible within the confines of international law. The Federation would shut me down.  
10PzK: If I paid the full 12,100, and added the 4 short tons of organic salt as a bonus, would that inspire greatness in your company's ability to deliver on schedule?  
HerbieJ: It's not a matter of money, 10PzK. It's charters and passes and-  
10PzK: You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Jenkins. 30,000, plus the organic salts.  
HerbieJ: You aren't getting the picture. I can't-  
10PzK: 50,000.  
HerbieJ: Listen, stop cutting-  
10PzK: 150,000, and that is my final offer._  
  
Jenkins bit through his cigarette in shock. _Who the fuck_ is _this guy, and why does he need that much white phosphorus so soon?_  
  
Despite his misgivings, Jenkins was a business mind, and business minds knew a solid deal when they saw one. 150K for a measly 10 tons of elemental phosphorus was an atrocious amount of credits for so common an element, and an unthinkably good deal. No, not even a good deal. A windfall. Getting around the Federation's customs laws was not a hard thing to do, and this was simply too good a deal to pass up.  
  
A hot point flared on his upper leg, and he cursed as the still-red cherry of his cigarette began to scorch its way through his trousers towards his flesh. He slapped it out with a quick flurry of his hands, then returned his attention to the keyboard, typing carefully so that his shaking hands did not cause illegibility.  
  
_HerbieJ: Give me your address. I'll ship to you in seven days, guaranteed.  
10PzK: A pleasure doing business with a true patriot, Mr. Jenkins._  
  
**33,000 km above Antarctica, Inner Van Allen Belt  
May 1, 0087**  
  
"I'm ready for my closeup, Mr. Director," muttered Antares de la Somme as he flipped a rack of switches until it was a row awash with green. Piloting the _Non Sequitor_ was easy enough normally, but this was going to be a real interesting trip. A worthy challenge for any pilot in this circumstance, but failure was not an option.  
  
The interior of the bulk freighter was far less extravagant than the starfield in which it sailed. Despite de la Somme's best efforts, it still seemed so boring. A stereo blared Jimi Hendrix next to his head, and a small plastic Death Star hung from a suction cup attached to the viewport. Twinkie wrappers littered the interior, floating to and fro in the null-gravity environment. In essence, _Non Sequitor's_ living conditions were more suited for inbred squatters or a pack of condors than a soldier of Zeon. De la Somme liked things just the way they were, minus that boredom thing. Besides, it wasn't long now before all this would change, and Twinkies would be hard to come by.  
  
A couple of skilled course alterations had brought _Non Sequitor_ to this heading, where he was cruising in a northern direction, preparing to angle over Africa and over the Mediterranean to his final destination. No sweat. This would be easier than making Margul cry.  
  
The Minovsky reactor kicked into high gear as the three OMS booster engines roared into noisy life. De la Somme knew that in space, there would be no sound at all, but the racket inside the bulk freighter more than made up for the lack of stimulus beyond the scope of the ship's atmosphere. He glanced at the instruments, watching the red digital numbers beginning to descend as the view of Earth swelled before his viewport. It was only a few minutes before the rangefinder reached the 25,000 km mark, which put him in range of terrestrial radar networks and radio communications range as well.  
  
_Good evening, Federation. It's 9 o'clock in Central Europe. Do you know where your Zeon are?_  
  
De la Somme could not have cared less about the radar or radio ranges. His quarry was---there! Right where it was supposed to be, moving in at a 45 degree angle to his own course, and several hundred kilometers lower, in a course currently taking it over Asia. Clutching the stick that manually controlled _Non Sequitor's_ pitch and yaw, he gave the attitude thrusters a bit of juice and angled the heavy ship into a 32 degree re-entry angle, cutting back on the bigger OMS retro rockets so he could simply cruise on inertia for a moment. Compared to the leisurely speed de la Somme had lived at for the last few months, the speed was almost an adrenaline rush.  
  
Exquisite, but not the kind of rush Antares de la Somme lived for.  
  
"Showtime, God. This is one of those times where it's harder than it seems to carry the weight of Your plans while hiding in shadows, but You've put me here for Your reasons, so let's make this a run worth the time and trouble." With that, he punctuated the end of his statement by thumbing the transmit button to ON.  
  
"London Town, London Town, this is commercial bulk freighter _Non Sequitor_. I'm two weeks out of Granada with a shipment of Luna ore bound for Gibraltar. Flight code 3D42TGRD, shipping code RZ44543. Requesting immediate landing clearance for the Gibraltar starport. Respond, please."  
  
**London Control, British Isles, Western Europe  
May 1, 0087**  
  
"_Non Sequitor_, this is London Control. You are cleared for approach in five minutes. Maintain course and altitude." The traffic control officer did his best not to yawn. Another banner day for London central control, with all the shipping that did not get picked up by the Titans or preyed upon by the AEUG. This made all of a half dozen ships in three days to run the gauntlet and actually speak to a Federation tower.  
  
"_Roger that, London Town. What's the weather like down there?_" replied the voice of _Non Sequitor's_ pilot.  
  
"Balmy. Unlike Gibraltar, we are neither sunny nor with clear skies. You are getting off lucky with this run."  
  
"_That so? Rain is fun, too. You should learn to appreciate it. It could always be snow, you know_."   
  
The control officer sniffed, reaching for his tea. _Rain, fun? This bloke's been up there too long_. "Whatever you say, _Non Sequitor_."  
  
He raised the teacup to his lips, his eyes not seeing the altitude of the incoming freighter begin to plummet very rapidly.  
  
The pilot was not done chatting yet. "_So, do you like music?_"  
  
**5000 km above Central Africa and descending  
May 1, 0087**  
  
_Stupid Earthnoid_, thought de la Somme. He was not paying attention to the inclination angle anymore, nor his rate of descent. Only his speed relative to his quarry occupied his time. The conversation with the tower controller was just icing.  
  
"Re-entry in three, London Town," he spoke testily. His impatience was beginning to surface, now that he was so close. He thumbed the MUTE on the radio as his eyes took in the object he was about to intercept.  
  
"Thank you, Admiral Delaz. This may be the best gift you gave Zeon after all," he said to thin air, hoping Delaz heard him wherever he was. After all, if it were not for Stardust, then the mass approaching his ship would not be here to help him smuggle his cargo to Earth.  
  
During the course of Stardust, a great many ships, fighters, and mobile suits were destroyed while in relative orbit of Earth. Rather than cleaning up the mess, the Federation simply allowed such debris to be drawn in by the gravity of Terra to burn up in the atmosphere. A simple solution to the problem, and cheaper than using tugs to haul all that scrap to wherever they would haul it.   
  
"I'm a fan of old rock and roll, London Town. Elvis, Steppenwolf, Guns 'N Roses, you know? You sound kinda cultured, so I just wondered if you were into it, too."  
  
Some debris, however, had something of journey to complete to receive its final friction immolation. One of those objects was the forward half of the _Gwazine_-class Zeon battleship _Gwadan_, the late Admiral Delaz's flagship. The aft section had been blown apart during the battle, and the remainder of the ship had been gutted and vented into space, but the outer hull had held up to the stress. Thus, there was a nice _Gwazine_ bow section shell floating in space, preparing for its last mission.  
  
"I mean, after all that proto-music that spawned out of Europe that called itself rock and roll for the last couple of centuries, it's no wonder most of the planet only listens to that pop shit . Or that hideous punk crap people think is rock and roll. C'mon, how much rock and roll can you make when your brain-dead lead guitarist only plays three stupid chords for the entire track? That's not music! That's for herding cattle back into the pen by causing a stampede!"  
  
And it would cross in front of _Non Sequitor_ in one minute.  
  
**London Control, British Isles, Western Europe  
May 1, 0087**  
  
Two desks down from the traffic control officer, the man seated at the fast-track telemetry console was not nearly as low-key as his co-worker. The reasons behind his anxiety were twofold, the first being that he was in constant communication with a network of other telemetry sites that tracked orbital debris, and a rather large piece of that was due to arrive in the lower atmosphere today. The second reason was that his boss, the Colonel Himself, was standing right behind him.  
  
"Affirmative, Ankara. I have it on my scope. Tracking _Gwadan_ on a north-northwest course to overfly Europe and across the Arctic Pole. We will take it from here, thank you. London out," he severed the connection to the last in the string of sites, then sighed, rubbing his eyes. "_Gwadan's_ right where she's supposed to be, sir."  
  
The Colonel leaned closer, watching the red blip on the screen. "Is there enough left of the ruddy bitch to make it through?"  
  
"Maybe, sir. She's a bit worse for wear, but she may have enough mass and armor left for something to come through. But _Gwazines_ aren't built for atmospheric entry, so it's doubtful, sir. Even if so much as a micron makes it through re-entry friction, it'll splash down somewhere off Greenland."  
  
"Make certain, Sergeant. That heap of shit gave us enough trouble back in 0083, let's make absolutely certain it won't give us an encore." The Colonel, satisfied, turned away to continue his rounds.  
  
Two desks down, the traffic officer commented, "No, I can't say that I think Eddie Van Halen was a better guitarist than Carlos Santana. . ." He was beginning to tire of hearing this man's boyish voice chattering in his ears. This had been the longest two minutes of his life.  
  
"_But it's so obvious! Haven't you ever sat down and actually listened to classic rock? Van Halen's chord movements are so complex that unless you have a real ear for it, you won't even hear the fact that one note is more like three, played so well that you can't tell between them. Santana is simple in comparison!_"  
  
"You've got two more minutes, _Non Sequitor_," the control officer was rapidly losing his patience. The pilot of that freighter could outtalk a tabloid rag, and have words left over for a street preacher.  
  
"_And as for British folks like Clapton, no chance in hell. Too stuffy._"   
  
"Now, now, none of that." The pilot had just pushed a button. Clapton was one of his favorite classic artists.  
  
"_Ohhhh, you're a Clapton fan. No wonder you're so sheltered from real talent. England only produced one decent artist in the 20th, and that was David Bowie. All the others were cheap Beatles knockoffs. . ._"   
  
The traffic control officer went red. "Now see here, chappie. The 20th Century was chock full of excellent English rock and roll, and no bloody Lunarian is going to-"  
  
"_Yeah, this from the country that gave us EMF, the Rolling Stones, and Elton John. What-_ever. _Any nation that has to depend on Phil Collins to dredge them up from conformity is musically an evolutionary dead end_."  
  
The officer's knuckles went white. _The gall of this man!_ "And I suppose Rob Zombie is held as a paragon of 20th Century American culture?"  
  
The laugh of the freighter pilot was sharp, almost like a bark. "_No more so than Fatboy Slim or Judas Priest is for the English. Face it, old boy, English music died a screaming death when you gave Parliament all the power._"  
  
The officer made a strangling sound. "That was centuries BEFORE the 20th, you cheeky nit!"   
  
"_Retroactive karma_," replied the pilot smugly. "_It's what English culture deserved for oppressing Canada and giving the world Alfred, Lord Tennyson's godawful poetry to inflict upon the fragile psyches of the young_."  
  
"No one's forced to study Tennyson anymore!"  
  
"_And it's a good thing, too. Now if we can just kill off any mention of the House of Windsor, you'll be on the fast track to recovery as a culture. At least you're lucky, though_."  
  
Teeth gritted, the officer spat, "Why's that, then?"  
  
"_You're not British. Your accent firmly places you as a Norwegian, and your only problem is an unhealthy fascination for fish and pillage_."   
  
The traffic control officer, born in York and a product of Sandhurst, used every ounce of discipline he could muster not to rip the headphones off his head and fling them at the screen with the green blip that designated Non Sequitor's position and altitude---_what the hell?_  
  
"_Non Sequitor_, your rate of descent is too steep. You are not cleared for approach yet. Correct your altitude to 20,000 km and hold position."   
  
"_Ha! Nice try, Sven. Why don't you go bust up some Polish wedding and claim the bride as_ vergeld_? My altimeter puts me at 35,000 km already, and you're not getting out of this conversation that---Jesus_ God! _What the fuck is_ that"   
  
**The _Gwadan-Non Sequitor_ Linkup  
May 1, 0087**  
  
This was the tricky part. _Non Sequitor_ was moving in excess of 17,000 kph, slightly faster than _Gwadan_ was. Gripping the stick with his right hand, his left hand poised over the retrothruster controls, Antares de la Somme closed his eyes, extending his perception through the hull of the freighter.  
  
He did not know how he was able to do it, but ever since he was a boy he'd been able to make vehicles act in a fashion as though they were a part of himself. This talent had made him a very successful mobile suit pilot, and even an excellent fighter pilot, but this was the first time he'd attempted this with an object the size and mass of _Non Sequitor_.  
  
"I hate this, God. I don't want to have to do this, really I don't."  
  
Sweat began to form inside his helmet, threatening to drip into his eyes. His grip on the stick was so tight he could feel the plastic squeaking, but the ship's course did not waver. The looming aft of the remainder of _Gwadan_ was there, preparing to swallow him whole.   
  
"Mayday! Mayday! London Town, this is _Non Sequitor_! I've just collided with a large mass of postwar debris! Maneuvering thruster control is down and am moving off course for Gibraltar! Mayday! Mayday!"  
  
The proximity alarms screamed into his helmet, drowning out Hendrix. He ignored them. The ship's computer tried to assert direct control over the thrusters, trying to save itself. He overrode it by sheer power alone. His perception told him he had six inches between the flanks of his cargo section and the edges of the _Gwadan's_ bow section. Gritting his teeth, he gave the ship one burst of speed, driving the freighter into the gaping maw.  
  
"C'mon and squeal for me, you repugnant fuck!" he hissed at the bulky ship's control console.  
  
With three inches to spare on each side, he slid the freighter into _Gwadan's_ shell. The harsh grinding of the two hulls, as the exposed superstructure of the battleship tried to dig into the hull of the invading freighter, made his teeth hurt. When his perception told him that his nose was a foot away from the forward bulkhead of the _Gwadan_, his left hand flew over the retrothruster buttons.  
  
"Aft-aft-aft-port-starboard-port-port, and _BAM_!"   
  
With a last bump, _Non Sequitor_ slid home, nestled firmly within the confines of the larger mass of steel. It had been, in his mind, just like slipping a glove over his own fingers.  
  
With a flick of a button, the collision alarm sounded, and he kicked the OMS thrusters to full power, bringing the combined vessels into a sharp incline course at flank speed. Then he toggled the TRANSMIT switch.  
  
"Oh, _GOD_! Hull breached in three places! I am going DOWN, London, and that thing is attached to my goddamn _SHIP_!" Unable to keep a smile off his face, he concentrated his efforts on keeping the smile out of his screams to the control tower.  
  
**London Control, British Isles, Western Europe  
May 1, 0087**  
  
Bedlam ensued.  
  
"Aspect change! Drastic course alteration to transient!" screamed the fast-track operator.  
  
Simultaneously, the traffic control officer yelled, "Collision alert! Impact with orbital transient at 2000 km altitude!"  
  
The Colonel ran up the steps to their aisle. "Report!" he barked, pointing at the traffic officer.  
  
"Freighter _Non Sequitor_ reports collision with large mass. Course aspect has been altered drastically. New heading now towards central Europe. Trying to reestablish contact now."  
  
"Now you!" pointed the Colonel at the fast-track operator.  
  
"_Gwadan_ has just undergone a massive course shift. New aspect is now central Europe. Time to reentry is fifteen seconds."  
  
"Damn," cursed the Colonel. The freighter and the debris had collided in orbit, now they were both taking a plunge into Earth's atmosphere, apparently out of control. "Get back on the horn with that freighter pilot. See if he can't shake loose from _Gwadan_ manually."  
  
"I'm trying, sir, but there's Minovsky radiation beginning to interfere with the signal. I think the freighter's taken reactor damage."  
  
The Colonel sat down. "Then he's dead. I want a direct spot of landing triangulated immediately. Notify Bonn that they may be getting a visitor."  
  
In the headset of the control officer, who was on the verge of losing his own control, the shrieking of the pilot and his pleading cries for mercy were dissolving into unintelligible static.  
  
**Berchtesgaden, Bayern, Central Europe  
May 1, 0087**  
  
The _Tag der Arbeit_ fest was in full swing. In typically eccentric Bavarian fashion, all the stops had been pulled for the May Day celebration. Ancient customs were resurrected, including the dreaded _Lederhosen_ and _Dirndl_ dresses. The Maypole had been decorated gaily, with children dancing around it while the adults sat around, eating, drinking and generally having a good time about it. Beer was produced in copious quantities, and consumed in a ready fashion. It had been a gorgeous day, but now it was getting into the evening time, when the sun sets and the fires begin to burn high. In Germany, after all, no party ever has a curfew, until the police showed up to inform you of a new one.  
  
The Maypole had been brought down late last night, but the party had continued through today and into the evening. Bavarians knew parties, and May Day Eve and _Tag der Arbeit_ were no exceptions.  
  
A traditional band, the same one that had been playing for almost a decade in Berchtesgaden, churned out ancient tune after tune, pausing only to eat and drink. What made this one so different from the others was the fact that people across Obersalzberg made the journey on May Day to hear them play. Their violinist, it was said, could make Paganini cry, and Mozart rise from the dead. While a violin was not the average instrument in a folk band in Bavaria, it was enough of addition with the accordion, brass, pipes, and drums that it seemed as though it had been there forever.  
  
Across Obersalzberg, everyone knew that Tomas von Seeckt was a master of the fiddle, and only played once a year. That once a year time was enough to warrant the cost for the trip.  
  
Von Seydlitz had just finished this last set and was listening to the applause from the appreciative audience at his performance, when a blinking light above him caught his eye. He turned his gaze upwards, to see a ball of fire go streaking across the sky, followed by several sharp booms as the sound barrier broke over and over again. He knew exactly what it was, and where it was going.  
  
For the ones who paid attention to the band and not the flaming fireball streaking overhead like Wormwood falling from the heavens, for the first time anyone could remember, Tomas von Seeckt actually smiled.  
  
**_Kehlsteinberge_, Bayern, Central Europe  
May 1, 0087**  
  
"The spots are up and ready, Captain," grunted Vladimir Margul to the much smaller man facing him. The trucks were idling behind them, well-secured in a treeline. A rack of ten IR spotlights were up and operational, placed in parallel rows stretching about a kilometer. All they were waiting for now was the arrival of Antares de la Somme and his all-important shipment.  
  
Margul did not believe de la Somme capable of completing this task. Colonel von Seydlitz had always placed too much faith in the crazy little shit, and more often than not, trouble followed even after accomplishing the mission. No, de la Somme was too unstable to be trusted with so important a task.   
  
The smaller man, Captain John Roberts, knew Margul hated de la Somme with a passion, but was willing to let that slide as long as the delivery went on without a hitch. Roberts was the only man in the 10th with rank equivalent to von Seydlitz's. A Marine, Roberts was accustomed to doing "the bestest with the mostest", whether it was prudent or not. Margul was the "mostest" he could get for this trip.  
  
A contrast with his superior, Margul was a big man, with a peasant's build and hands, a ruddy face, and hair that may once have been auburn but was fading. His capacity for violence was almost uncontrollable. He'd built his name in the war by being a killer during Lorelei, leading his 2nd 'Grimravers' Shock Battalion into countless firefights and coming out of them intact, bearing their trophies of victory like the Cossacks of old returning from the fight with the heads of the dead on their sabers. He personally held the second-highest kill rating in the Division, and the Federation had nicknamed him 'Demon', but his kill rating could not stand up to fellow Commander and rival Antares de la Somme's.  
  
The reason for that, Roberts knew, was that Margul was an animal by nature, a beast that existed for the purpose of death and carnage. De la Somme was a soldier with a penchant for destruction, and a skill at piloting that still had Roberts baffled. Being baffled was something he was not accustomed to, nor was it an easy state to bestow upon him.

  
John Roberts had seen his share of combat. As the head of the Marine detachment assigned to the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ by Kishiria Zavi herself, he had grown used to being the fish out of water. A Fleet man assigned to an Army unit, his "Captain" was two grades higher than the Army "Captain", making him the equivalent of a Colonel (which had not been an issue until after Paris, when the virtually the entire Division had been promoted two ranks). He was unassuming, a short, fireplug-built man who was usually very quiet and not known for outbursts of temper. He looked like a farmer, and nothing about his appearance detracted from this first impression, at least superficially. However, he was one of the most dangerous men in the Division, with fists, guns, or alcoholic beverages. The crisscrossed scars on his knuckles were proof positive that John Roberts was not a man to be trifled with. The 22nd 'Onslaught' Marine Battalion had gained its share of glory during the war, and its reputation spoke for itself.  
  
"That's good, Commander. Now we wait." Roberts was a master of patience and opportunity, two necessary features for successfully working with a man like von Mellenthin. How someone like Margul had managed to survive the war under the command of someone like Dietrich von Mellenthin was a mystery to Roberts.  
  
There were nine of them here, in the foothills of the Alps, taken from the various Battalions. _No_, thought Roberts, _Platoons. All our men put together wouldn't make a battalion, even if we keep the names. Nine trucks, nine men, half of the remainder of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_, all here to retrieve this single chance at something greater than a life of salt mining._  
  
Roberts, for one, would be glad to get de la Somme back. The twisted little man, despite his youth and eccentricities, was a real fighter. Margul, in Roberts' eyes, was just a terror. De la Somme was a controller of terror, and that made him far more dangerous than all the Marguls in Zeon.  
  
And von Seydlitz could freeze the blood in their veins at will. That made _him_ even that much worse.  
  
Still, the time was coming when Margul's talents would be needed. In a fight, Roberts would rather have Margul on his side. The brute was an effective weapon. He pulled a flask out of his jacket pocket and passed it to Margul without a word. The Commander accepted and took a long pull from it.

"It's only a matter of minutes now, Vladimir. After so long."  
  
Margul nodded, wiping his lips with the back of a sleeve and passing the flask back. "That little parasite had better have gotten the order right, or I'll kick his ass back to Granada from here."   
  
_You wish you had the balls for that._ Roberts did not dignify Margul's statement with a verbal response, especially since a rumble sounded through the mountains, and a bright spot in the sky began to swell in his vision.  
  
Margul noticed it, too. "_INCOMING!_" he brayed, his voice echoing through the valley, overriding even the staccato of the outboard generator the spotlights were being powered by. "_GET INTO POSITION AND START PRAYING, YOU MISERABLE BASTARDS!_"  
  
Roberts winced. It was like standing next to a bear when it was angry and bellowing, or a freight train rushing past your head while you were in a tunnel. _Loudmouthed gorilla's going to get us all caught._  
  
**_Gwadan-Non Sequitor_  
May 1, 0087**  
  
His thumb mashing the button intermittently, releasing streams of built-up Minovsky particles over both the vessels, de la Somme's eyes were riveted on the course reader. It was fluctuating to several degrees port and starboard, moving off the mark he'd assigned to it. This was all going to have to be done manually. He would have spat on the console, but his helmet would have stopped that. As it was, he was slamming his fist on the instrument panel when he was not pressing buttons.  
  
"Stupid, dirty, beastly device! I'm not dancing with the dinosaurs today, not when I'm so damn close!"  
  
_Gwadan's_ shell was breaking up, boiling away at the tremendous heat from re-entry, and the insane speed the paired vessels were traveling at. De la Somme's eyes flickered over the speedometer, which still read in excess of 13,000 kph. Too fast. He was going to overshoot his mark at this rate, and he had but seconds to slow this hulk down.

They were passing over the Alps now. Locking the Minovsky stream to the ON position, thus helping break up their pattern to radar, he moved his hand and pushed the button for the aft thrusters to fire at full power.  
  
The jerking of the freighter pressed his back into his seat, as the shell of _Gwadan_ wriggled its way right off of _Non Sequitor_, continuing on its heading at speed, glowing red-hot from re-entry friction. Nothing of it would reach the surface. The Delaz Fleet was now well and truly gone from space.  
  
The whole craft shaking around him, as though it would fly apart, Antares de la Somme began to pray. "God, if I stand, then let me stand on the promise that You'll pull me through this, and if I can't, let me fall on the grace You used to bring me to You!"  
  
Cutting off the OMS thrusters and applying more power to the aft managed to bring the ship to a mere 8,500 kph. Still too fast, and he was entering the lower atmosphere in an uncontrollable power dive, where friction would not aid in his slowing this hulk down to land safely. The nose would not raise itself up, even with all the weight in the aft section, which guaranteed the ship would break apart on impact.   
  
"And if I sing let it be from the joy You have brought me in songs, but if I weep let it be as a man---"  
  
One last shot, and the most dangerous. The rangefinder was squealing that he was going to smash into the Earth like a colony. The position was good. There were several IR spots in his visor's vision, right if front of him, but they were five degrees too far to starboard, and he was going to overfly them. Only this one shot left. He kicked on the maneuvering thrusters one last burst.  
  
"---who is longing for his HOME!!" he screamed with all the fury that a man who had never bothered to hide his true emotions from anyone could muster.  
  
And a voice in his head spoke: '**Now**.'  
  
With a cry of absolute determination, he stomped on the release pedal for the cargo bay. With a _thump_-ing sound and a shudder that rocked the entire freighter, the cargo containment bay dropped off of the ship. Had anyone alive at the time been there to see it, it was a very similar maneuver to a WWII _Luftwaffe_ Stuka dive-bomber making a pinpoint strike with its payload at speed.  
  
The laugh tore itself from his throat. "HA!! Suck it _down_, Feddies! I'm a comin', and Hell's comin' with me!"  
  
Now, like the Stuka, the trick was to pull up before the plane also hit the target.  
  
**_Kehlsteinberge_, Bayern, Central Europe  
May 1, 0087**  
  
"Mother of Zeon, he's going to crash into the mountain," this revelation was whispered by Roberts as he watched the glowing form of a cargo freighter plunge through the atmosphere at a speed that would have stunned the 'Red Comet' himself.  
  
Margul licked his lips as he watched. _Maybe wishes DO come true_. Antares de la Somme, perishing while pan-caking on a big rock, would be so appropriate. Once he was dead, the white star-and-sword symbol Margul despised so much would be eclipsed by the horned demon of the 'Grimravers', and he and his men would reign supreme throughout Operation Nemesis.  
  
The way it always should have been.  
  
Roberts was running even before the cargo section of the ship separated itself from the fast-moving fireball. He had been a Marine long enough to know when to think and when to act. He was pleased to note that the other Marine, Private Gary van Allen, was also moving towards the spotlights, several seconds before the rest of the troops started to move.  
  
Margul stayed behind to watch. This was a sight he would not miss for anything.  
  
**London Control, British Isles, Western Europe  
May 1, 0087**  
  
"It's gone, sir. It crashed somewhere in the Alps," reported the traffic officer to the Colonel.  
  
"And _Gwadan_?"  
  
"Presumably destroyed with it, sir. A whole shipment of Lunarian ore, up in smoke."  
  
"On our watch, on top of it. Carry on, Sergeant. Whatever's left will be recovered by Bonn, though I doubt much will be there. It's not like it was a colony or what-not."

**_Non Sequitor_  
May 1, 0087**  
  
On top of having a bizarre name, with equally bizarre genetics, Antares de la Somme had always had certain qualities that made him even stranger than most people could admit to, much less understand. His piloting skill, his inability to cloak his emotions and ego, and his absolute devotion to von Mellenthin and von Seydlitz notwithstanding, the one quirk that caught the most attention but was spoken of the least was his ability to "see" certain things during times of intense stress. De la Somme attributed this to God really liking him, but also preferred not to dwell on the ramifications too much.  
  
Besides, someone might call him a Newtype or something, and then he'd have to stab them with a screwdriver. . .or something. He preferred to be a normal person with some special individual qualities, not some special person who looked normal. That would get him landed in a lab somewhere, and that would be _immensely_ boring.  
  
At this moment, he "saw" the cargo container make a perfect landing right between the rows of spotlights. He "saw" his fellow Zeon moving towards the impact site. He "saw" Margul remain with the truck, watching him about to crash with a big "I'm too stupid to know what I'm thinking right now" grin on his broad, flattened face.  
  
He "saw" his way out of this mess.  
  
With the loss of the cargo section, the _Non Sequitor_ had begun to cartwheel, with the big OMS thrusters now pointing towards the mountain, and the crew compartment spinning towards aft, on its way to making a complete revolution back towards the front, just before impacting on the side of _Kehlsteinberge_.  
  
Strapped into his chair, with gravity trying to drag him towards the ceiling of the crew compartment as the ship suddenly reached the "upside-down" point in its cartwheel, Antares de la Somme grabbed his plastic dangling Death Star and kicked the EJECT pedal behind the flimsy glass.

With an explosive burst of force as the charges blew the ingress-egress airlock doors open, de la Somme and about a thousand empty Twinkie wrappers rocketed into the atmosphere.  
  
Out of control and not knowing which way was "up", the Zeon ace did the one thing that came naturally. He made it a show.  
  
"_Yeeeeeee-**HAWWW**_!!"  
  
**_Kehlsteinberge_, Bayern, Central Europe  
May 1, 0087**  
  
The freighter plowed into the mountain with a deep basso **boom** that would probably echo for hours in the Alps, disintegrating from the speed at which it was traveling and carving a divot into the 1,885-foot tall mass of igneous granite.  
  
From the time of first sighting the incoming _Non Sequitor_ and its impact, nine seconds had elapsed. The cargo containers had landed at a brutal speed itself, slowed only by the dozen parachutes attached to its exterior and the packed earth of the surface of the planet.  
  
Without hesitation, the Zeon hurried to the massive box containers, all neatly arrayed in their own respective craters, and went to work on the containers, separating them from each other to be loaded onto the trucks. Three others began collecting the spotlights.  
  
"Let's go, people, time is wasting. Erase all traces of our presence and get those containers loaded now." Roberts's adrenalin was flowing freely now. The cargo was here, and hopefully intact. The freighter was destroyed, but what of the pilot? Roberts did not believe for a second that de la Somme would perish in such a fashion, but that may have just been the case. The ship had been inverted just before impact, and he had not seen a parachute.  
  
Von Seydlitz was not going to be pleased if his foster brother had just bought the farm in such a clumsy way, and Roberts wondered how many of them would survive his wrath.  
  
Just then, the sharp eyes of Private (First Class) Kyle Haskell, of von Seydlitz's 358th 'Unsullied', caught sight of something in the darkening sky. Pointing, he cried out, "_Sieg_ Zeon! There's de la Somme!"  
  
Roberts's eyes tracked towards where the soldier was pointing, and sure enough, there was a parachute coming down just a few dozen meters away. It could only be de la Somme. Only he would use a parachute sporting the ancient Tasmanian Devil animated figure across its surface.  
  
The normally quiet Marine let out a banshee yell, which was taken up by the other Zeon (except Margul and his two men), as the parachute drifted down. The figure attached to the billowing silk waved, his helmet tucked below his left arm.  
  
Roberts snapped his fingers, and Haskell and Lieutenant Dalyev went rushing to assist their prodigal comrade.  
  
"Howdy, boys!" yelled de la Somme from thirty feet in the air. "Daddy brought home the bacon!"  
  
Dalyev grinned. "Is the pig still grunting, though, Commander?"  
  
De la Somme huffed. "You doubt my abilities, faithless one?"  
  
"No, sir, just the quality of the shell on the egg," replied Dalyev smugly. The containers had hit the dirt rather hard, and making an omelet out of what was within them could have been very loud and very messy.  
  
With a smack of a hand, de la Somme released the latch on the parachute while he was still twenty feet in the air. He dropped like a stone, weighted even more than usual by gravity and the weights in his flight suit. He landed like a cat, rolling to absorb the impact. He clambered to his feet, a Cheshire-cat grin on his bearded face.   
  
"Like riding a bike, boys. Stay a bit back, though. I smell pretty rank right now." Several months in a closed environment wearing the same flight suit created some vicious smells, even though de la Somme could not detect them now. His lungs were filled with Earth's atmosphere for the first time in years, and he was reveling in it. Even the weight of gravity could not take him away from this moment.  
  
"That doesn't mean we're any less unpleased to have you back with us, Commander," said Haskell.  
  
The changes time had inflicted on the Zeon ace were less-than remarkable. His hair hung down past his shoulders in a greasy mass, almost like dreadlocks. His beard, a light brown color that matched his hair, was wild and untamed, angling from his face in all directions, flattened in others from the helmet he'd worn for so long. The eyes, however, despite being rather simple amber, were filled with an energy and exuberance that one could not help smiling at. Beyond the hair length on scalp and face, nothing else had changed a bit.  
  
The face attached to de la Somme, and his unruly natural hair, was undeniably his. With the long, tapered nose, the hair, and the mania behind his eyes, he more resembled one of the characters from the syndicated "Two Angry Beavers" cartoon show than a human. He was built more like von Seydlitz than von Mellenthin, with the ranginess of someone who was fast rather than strong. The difference, however, was that where the much taller von Seydlitz's slender frame concealed true physical power and the quickness of a fencer, the 5'4" de la Somme's was more sticks-and-bones, with the capacity for freakish bursts of speed one moment, and lackadaisical sloth the next.  
  
Despite having that package to work with, the master of the 15th 'Tyrant Tornadoes' Fast Attack Battalion was the most successful mobile suit pilot in the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ Division. His record was a dozen kills above his next closest competitor. While not nearly as famous as the "Space Aces" like Char 'Red Comet' Aznable, Shin 'White Wolf' Matsunaga, or Johnny 'Red Lightning' Ridden, de la Somme was the only member of the 10th to have space kills in his record, from his brief time as one of Vice-Admiral Dozul Zavi's Space Assault Corps. Von Mellenthin had wagered control of his then-autonomous command with Dozul that he could take Berlin within ten days of the 10th's landing on Terra, and Dozul had wagered de la Somme that he could not. Von Mellenthin had won the bet, and de la Somme had landed on Earth, bringing his white star-and-sword standard with him, to reap fire and death on the Federation.  
  
The Feddies had dubbed him 'Killing Star'. He was the fourth ace to survive Metz, and the war. He was now 24 years old and no different in personality now than from when he was a 16-year old recruit, four years younger than von Seydlitz, five years younger than von Mellenthin, and the only person who could truly claim to fully understand the motivations of either man.  
  
Love him or hate him, Antares de la Somme was the personification of self-confidence and humor. Exactly the opposite of Reinhardt von Seydlitz. How the von Mellenthins had survived either of them, much less both in the same house, was beyond anyone's ability to rationalize.  
  
"I trust the gravity is to your liking, Commander," commented Roberts as the three men approached the recovery zone and the rest of the Zeon, who all wore grins on their faces. Margul had moved down to the recovery site and stood next to Roberts, glowering at de la Somme with all his might.   
  
De la Somme threw a hasty salute, Roberts outranking him and all. "It sucks ass, sir. I'd rather we were all in space this time around."  
  
"Agreed, Commander," responded Roberts. "I miss space, as well. But it won't go anywhere, and our war is here on Earth. And watch your language, please." One of Roberts's taboos was profanity, and he was almost Benedictine about its usage. This changed with the simple application of alcohol and decent conversation, of course. Once a Marine, after all . . . "Go rest in the lead truck, Commander. We'll take this from here. Colonel von Seydlitz will be pleased."  
  
"Thank you, sir," said de la Somme, "I live to make Colonel von Seydlitz giggle like a schoolgirl at every opportunity." The shorter ace turned his eyes on Margul. "I see that while he couldn't personally be here, he sent his mule with you. Hello, Vlady."  
  
"Fuck yourself, Antares. I didn't miss you a goddamn bit, you half-rate," spat Margul. _So close. . ._  
  
De la Somme's grin swelled until it seemed to encompass his entire head. Without a word or warning, he swung the helmet clutched in his left hand and whipped it across Margul's face. It hit with a dull _thwack_, and the larger man reeled backwards, hands moving to his face in reflex.  
  
"You say the sweetest things, murderer. Get used to being Number Two again." On that note, de la Somme stormed past Margul, who stared at him in hate, held back only by his two men and the harsh glare of Roberts.  
  
The 'Killing Star' had again fallen to the Earth, and God's wrath had come with him.


	4. Chapter 3

**MSG: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed**

**Chapter 3   
  
Bonn, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe  
May 2, 0087**  
  
"And you say that both the wreckage of _Gwadan_ and the bulk freighter it collided with are in _my_ jurisdiction?" It seemed so hard to believe for Colonel Lucas Edgrove, commander-in-chief of Federation European Theater Command. It was so long ago that anything of importance had happened here, not since the One-Year War in fact. The Delaz Fleet and the depredations of Stardust had not touched Europe in any way, shape, or form, except to bring the paltry Federation presence on the continent to a state of heightened alert for the duration. Even the political shakeup at Jaburo and the rise of the Titans had done little to affect daily operations here.  
  
Europe was peaceful, calm, and unproblematic. It was civilized here, and the horrors the war with Zeon had wrought on the psyche of Europe would not long be forgotten. Even after eight years, the war had joined Europe's countless other wars as a memory, but a firm one that generations would not fade. There were times that facet of these people frightened Edgrove. When that happened, he had cognac to fix it.  
  
One thing he had not gotten used to was the immense responsibility for even the littlest of details. With the Titans running the show, military strength in Europe was barely worth noting on the strategic level. In fact, as a Colonel, Edgrove had direct authority over civil matters in Europe, but only had a single company's worth of forces left to use, and they were based in Kassel. He'd never had to call them to do anything.  
  
There were other assets, too. There was a signals platoon still in Lammersdorf, operating the massive telecommunications station that had been there since the ancient Cold War. There was a company of field engineers that still held Federal grant, and they went all over the place fixing storm damage and keeping tabs on weather-worrisome areas. There were scattered units throughout the continent, doing other menial tasks. They all had daily jobs to do, and did them to the best of their abilities. Edgrove sometimes envied them. He'd resign if even so much as a high school made him a decent teaching offer.  
  
Then there were the Titans, and they were everywhere. They ruled the military infrastructure. It was through the Titans that Edgrove's small defense force received the bulk of its supplies and its support. The Titans fielded a Tactical Combat Brigade out of Lyons, their regional headquarters, and they had liaisons and representatives in every aspect of Federation politics. Edgrove even had a Titans adjutant, a young Captain who did not fight in the War or against Delaz. That same Captain also wielded more direct power than Edgrove could ever hope to bring to bear, though the aging Colonel had more than enough wily regulations tricks up his sleeve to keep the Titans from simply absorbing the remaining Federation military presence into their own structure.  
  
"Yes, Colonel. They crashed somewhere in the Alps, sir. I've taken the liberty to dispatch a search and rescue team to the site to evaluate if anything can be salvaged. London Control reports that the chances are less than a percent that they'll find anything except a smoking hole, with the speed the two ships were falling at, sir."  
  
"Well, it can't hurt to check, can it? Order the team to verify the destruction of the freighter and the ore, and try to find out the name of the pilot and the next of kin. You said it was out of Granada, right?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Then that will make it hard to trace, but try anyway." Edgrove ran a hand through his thinning hair, mentally cursing the exhaustion he'd felt in his bones since Metz. "If you absolutely have no choice, contact the Titans for-"  
  
"For _what_, Colonel?" cut in a harsh, acidic voice from behind him. Edgrove turned to face the chiseled arrogant visage of Titans Captain Garrett Sajer, his adjutant.  
  
Edgrove cleared his throat and waved the other Federation officer away with a hand. The other man saluted, then fled, leaving Edgrove with the capricious Sajer. "I trust you've heard about the accident from last night, Captain?"  
  
"Accidents don't concern _me_, Colonel, so why should it concern the Titans?" Sajer was a tall man, his slender frame topping Edgrove's ever-broadening one by several inches. His emerald eyes held hardness that someone who'd never seen combat should not possess, and despite his age, his coal-black hair was receding into a widow's peak that only served to make him look more vicious. If there was ever a stereotype for people like Garrett Sajer, it was the one of the sociopath from the old cult films. The young Captain did nothing to deter this judgment, as his prickly nature and volatile temper often overrode his judgment. Sajer spent a lot of time in the simulator and the mobile suit range, readying for the day he would go to war.  
  
Edgrove would not have wished that fate on a more appropriate soul. "The ship that went down last night was from Granada. An ore freighter."  
  
"Really?" Sajer smiled. "I'll have to assemble a battalion immediately, to hunt down those dangerous Spacenoid ore commandoes that seek to lay the Federation low. Why are you wasting your time and your men on a pointless search and rescue mission, Colonel? Moreover, why do you feel the need to waste the Titans' time? The pilot is dead, the shipment is destroyed, and the craft itself is probably sitting with some damned goat up on one of those stupid mountains."  
  
"I don't doubt that," explained Edgrove, once again on the defensive against the younger Captain, "but regulations state that we have to be certain. In specific, Regulation Number 57, Article 5, subsection-"  
  
"Enough!" barked Sajer, loud enough to have heads poke out of offices in the hall to see what the commotion was about. Sajer hated being quoted to, which was why Edgrove insisted on doing so to him.  
  
"-subsection A specifically states that any mayday acknowledged during time of peace must be investigated by search and rescue, as a determination of the possibility of sabotage." Edgrove thanked the retired General Derrick again for hammering those into him as a young officer.  
  
Sajer snorted. "Fine, whatever. Go sweep your dust particles from your crash site. But do _not_ waste the Titans' time with this idiocy, Colonel. We aren't so desperate for adventure that we feel the need to go peek-a-boo into every fuck-up in Europe."  
  
The Titan pushed past Edgrove, leaving a fuming trail of annoyance in his wake. Edgrove watched him march down the hall, then turned and continued his own travel to the C & C to check his itinerary for the day.  
  
_And we won the war for THIS?_  
  
**Berchtesgaden, Bayern, Central Europe  
May 2, 0087**  
  
The rumbling of the trucks' engines was not nearly loud enough to drown out the shouting of the men, much less the pounding racket of a set of sticks whacking away on top of the metal roof of one of the big vehicles. The sound echoed throughout the caverns until it was a cacophony that hurt the mind as well as the ears. Its unbroken dissonance wavered only with the cheers of the reception, and the howling of the same source for the horrendous drumming.  
  
Perched atop the roof of the cab of the lead truck, Antares de la Somme flailed away at the metal beneath him with a pair of stout tree branches he'd managed to snag on the way to _Salzbergewerk_ from the crash site. Unlike his foster brothers, he possessed no musical ability himself, though he considered himself an expert on what he liked. This poor attempt at percussion was more a signaling device than a musical endeavor.  
  
Besides, he had to do something on the way back. His stench had been so overpowering that he'd been banished to the exterior of the truck. For that luxury, he'd made the two men in the truck suffer with migraine-inducing pain of hearing him 'drum' and 'sing'.   
  
_Bang-a-BANG-a-**BANGABANGABANG**-a-bang!_ went the drums. "The CHAMP is here!!" bawled the pilot. "The CHAMP is here!!"  
  
The rest of the men loved it. Cheers and catcalls rang out throughout the lower cavern as the trucks rumbled to their intended destination, the stopping and cutting engines once they'd been parked. The caterwauling continued even afterwards, with the enlisted men adding their voices to de la Somme's yowling. After the truck stopped, the diminutive Zeon ace jumped up and down on the roof, letting his boots do the drumming in place of the sticks.  
  
"Raise the roof, boys," de la Somme cried out over the cheering, "And thank God for the privilege!! Zeon is coming and ain't nobody going to forget us when we're gone!!"  
  
The exhortations only grew louder. Even Margul's men were swept up in it, though their commander was not swayed by the zeal of the younger pilot. The noise threatened to become a tempest, one that would bring the mountain crashing down by its mere power, as if to spite the engineers who made its caverns impregnable.  
  
"**SILENCE!!**" thundered a voice that vanquished the drumming, the cheers, and de la Somme with but that single word. Everything stopped immediately, and every eye turned upward towards the main cavern, several meters up and distant from the trucks.  
  
Reinhardt von Seydlitz heard the convoy arrive before he saw it, thanks to the monkey business being conducted before him. He stood on the balcony leading to the offices, hands clasped behind his back, watching the display below him like a gargoyle, face impassive as ever. He'd allowed it continue until ten minutes had passed. By then, even his own tolerance had snapped. That, and they did have a schedule to keep.  
  
His grey eyes never wavering from de la Somme's amber ones, von Seydlitz continued, using his 'command voice' that had prompted everyone's attention in the first place. "Get the truck under cover until after the morning shift has ended. Get the new programs loaded into the simulators and update their tactical data. Then get some sleep, or to work, whichever shift you are on. Somebody hose _Kommandant_ de la Somme off and get him looking like a soldier of Zeon again in the event that he has forgotten how! I can smell him from up here! _Mach schnell!_"  
  
The hustle began with extreme haste. De la Somme stared up at von Seydlitz, a big grin affixed to his face. "I'll be there to see you in a few, Colonel! Gotta get pretty first!" With that, two men grabbed de la Somme and hauled him physically towards the shower room, their victim cackling like a fiend the whole way.  
  
Von Seydlitz turned on a heel and walked back into the office, but not before Dalyev had brought him the technical manuals for the oh-so-lovely toys de la Somme had brought here for them.  
  
Clutching them in a hand, von Seydlitz allowed a small upturning of his lips to show through. "_Sehr gut, _Kommandant_. Ich freue mich ausserordentlich._"  
  
_I am well pleased, indeed._  
  
**Mannheim, Hessen, Central Europe  
May 2, 0087**  
  
The radio was spouting the morning news when the cell doors clanked open. "'. . .and there has been no further word from Side 1 about supposed charges of murder being levied against the Titans for their suppression of peaceable protests being held in Bunches throughout the colonies. The most-recent protest ended in tragedy, when Titans mobile forces quelled dissenters with deadly force three days ago, killing fifteen people and wounding dozens more. Titans Space Commander Colonel Bosque Ohm has no comment on the matter. . .'"  
  
Dietrich von Mellenthin habitually did not leave his cell until after the news. As his only real avenue of information from the outside, the news had become part of his routine. This morning was no exception. The news was intelligence, the stuff of life itself.  
  
It was the great reminder of Hatred, and that gave him the only thing that mattered in the universe: strength.  
  
The other prisoners were being noisy this morning. Hoots and howls from below, in Gen-Pop, threatened to drown out the broadcaster's voice. He frowned slightly, but decided not to do anything about it. Most of what he was listening to chopped through the clamor below.  
  
_Titans. More cattle, but powerful cattle. Will I have to face them someday?_ he thought. A soldier always kept his enemies known and listed. Prudence dictated it, as did Sun Tzu. Those were two things von Mellenthin had based his life around following: instinct and the words of those who had come before him to the great field called Armageddon.  
  
He sat up, shifting his legs until his feet rested on the ground. Then, he slowly stood, and began to bend until his palms were flat on the floor, his legs straight. This began his morning stretching routine, to keep himself limber. _Routine after routine. My life has become nothing but a series of routines._ This train of thought was dangerous. Only his will enabled him to continue to live in this Hell the Federation placed him in. Will, and hope that someday, he would be free again.  
  
_I will be free again. Reinhardt will drown the world in blood if this does not happen. I have to have faith in him, in the men. Patience, patience. . ._  
  
That mantra grew harder and harder to keep to with each passing week, he realized as he swung a heel up to the top bunk, then leaned across the extended leg until his forehead was touching his knee. Unlike von Seydlitz, who could remain calm in the middle of a cyclone, von Mellenthin possessed something of a vile temper, one that had landed him in tremendous amounts of trouble in his youth. It was because of that flaw in his nature that he took to planning ahead for all possible contingencies, to prevent a rash of temper from interfering with a plan or idea. He dictated situations, they did not dictate to him.  
  
"'. . .Federation officials did not comment on the lapse in the world economy, though analysts claim that the ongoing campaign with the AEUG continues to dominate the feel of the market. . .'"  
  
_And what of the future, though? Is it possible to accomplish what all of Zeon failed to do?_ His elbows popped as he stretched his arms to their limits. He would have kicked himself for allowing his thoughts to dilute to such pathetic hopelessness. The best reason to have hope was out there, in Germany somewhere, waiting and watching. They would not have forgotten their mission.  
  
Besides, he'd grown quite the army around himself here. Plenty of former Zeon soldiers incarcerated along with him, all looking for something greater than themselves. They all counted on him. If his morale faltered in this place, it would take them all down with him.  
  
_Unacceptable. The demeanor of those commanded is a direct reflection of the demeanor of the one in command._ Von Mellenthin would rather die than see these men shamed before the Federation any further than they already had been.   
  
_It is not conceivable for God to have invested me with the fate of a legion, only to die like a commoner in a cell. I will command again, as is my destiny, and not even the Titans will stop me then. No one will._ That was the key to it all. He had to remember that he, above the others, had been Chosen, by the Will of the _Ordnung_, to lead them into battle and to victory. His failure or success reflected on his House and New Koenigsberg, as well as Zeon.  
  
"'. . .the Council promised a new reconciliation for the doings of the past, saying that Zeon loyalists and AEUG renegades would be made to pay the price for disloyalty to Earth, but that the Federation would overlook past transgressions in exchange for total disarmament. . .'"  
  
The Field of May, now fifteen years in the past, was where it all came together. The great decision, as the Elector-Princes of the German Peoples resurrected the old _Taiding_ tradition and crowned one who would lead them into a war they knew was inevitable. That act ended an _Interregnum_ that had spanned hundreds of years. New Koenigsberg, as a colony of Side 3, was obligated to give its sons to the Zavi's War of Zeon Independence, but not to relinquish its old forms in deciding which among them would rule. There had been fifteen of them, all but one of them aged fifteen years, each representing the _Laender_ their lineages came from prior to the _Reise zum Raum_, the establishment of New Koenigsberg in space.  
  
Because no ruler had been elected since the deposition of Wilhelm II, last of the Hohenzollerns of Prussia, the _Ordnung_ had declared a grand melee to decide, by trial by combat, who among them would be worthy to lead them into battle, and unite the Houses under a single name until the war ended, and civil order would be reestablished. Von Mellenthin remembered the smell of the steel that encased him, the heft of the German warhammer in his gauntleted fists, the insurmountable feeling of _correctness_ of wearing the crowned red-and-white striped rampant lion, on a blue shield, the ancient symbol of Hessen, on his surcoat, and the weight of the steel chainmail and plate that he wore beneath the arms of his House. He remembered facing the other fourteen souls on that flat, grassy plain, with the mirrors and stars above them, rotating, watching the scions of the ancient Houses clash in the old way, as was ordained. Each of them represented their own affiliation, each of them as worthy as he had been.  
  
But not as strong as he had been, and for that they had fallen before him. He'd personally vanquished four of them with his own hand, bringing them to their knees and forcing them to yield before his might. The last had been the hardest of all. Reinhardt von Seydlitz had been among them, a year younger than the rest of them, the only one without a House of his own, the orphan with nothing but his name, bearing the weight of the honor of Brandenburg-Preussen on his shoulders. He had been von Mellenthin's only ally in the whole mess, and had stood back-to-back with him on the field, and for his loyalty von Mellenthin had laid him low with the others at the end of it all, before the entire population of New Koenigsberg, but whereas the others had yielded and remained on the ground, he had been forced to club von Seydlitz into unconsciousness in order to claim victory.  
  
It was the cruelest thing he had ever done to his foster brother, whom he had known and loved since he was seven. But they both understood what was at stake, and if proud Reinhardt had ever resented it, he'd kept it to himself.  
  
God had not let his strength falter then, and He would not let his strength falter now.  
  
"'. . .in other news, reports have come in from our affiliates in Europe that a freighter crash-landed late last night in the northern Alps, after a re-entry collision with a piece of space debris. Nothing has yet been confirmed, but Federation aerospace officials were quick to comment that it did not land in a populated area. Only the pilot of the freighter is presumed to have died in the crash, and the ship's cargo of Lunarian ore was lost in the accident . . .'"  
  
A shotgun blast to the face could not have stopped von Mellenthin's exercise routine faster than what the newscaster spoke.  
  
_Lunarian ore? That's it. It HAS to be. Nemesis is here, on Terra, right now. They did it. . .they actually DID it! Reinhardt hasn't failed me, the son of a bitch!_ He laughed aloud, practically running from the cell in his glee out into Gen-Pop. The guards looked at him, quizzical expressions slapped all over their faces, as they watched the most respected person in the prison acting like a kid, grabbing people's hands and shaking them, embracing others, laughing all the while.  
  
Von Mellenthin could feel their stares, smell their confusion, and hear the thought that had to be running through all their idealistically-inferior little minds: _what the hell's got HIM so fucking happy?_  
  
_Keep wondering, assholes,_ thought von Mellenthin back, his own jubilation pouring forth in an uncontrollable wave. _He must have used Antares to get them. Only Antares could pull that landing off and walk away from it. It's taken years, and none of them have shown themselves in all that time, except Antares. Very slick, Reinhardt, too slick for the Feddies to pick up on, but I know what you've been up to!_  
  
He was almost giddy once he reached the floor level, snagging a Federal guard with both hands and twirling the stunned enlisted man around in a clumsy waltz, before letting go and rushing away before the rest of the guards could start clubbing him or tasering him or whatever it was they'd feel like now that he'd touched one of them.  
  
"Wh-what the fuck is your PROBLEM??" sputtered the guard as his back hit the far wall, staring at von Mellenthin as he crowed his way down the stairs.  
  
"I'm a father again! Can't you tell?" yelled von Mellenthin back, the smile on his face like a sunrise after a cold rain.  
  
Unable to stop himself, the guard, a Corporal with a child of his own, grinned back, leaning over the rail. "I'll be sure to smoke a cigar for you then, General!"  
  
Von Mellenthin pointed at him as he literally jumped down the flight of stairs to the landing, both shoes hitting with a solid thump. "That stuff'll kill you, _Unteroffizier_!" With that, he went tearing off to infect the rest of the prison with his own joy.  
  
Another Federation guard approached the guard von Mellenthin had touched. "I think 'zee _General_' has finally lost it, the silly fuck."  
  
"Cut the guy some slack, Lenny," said his comrade, throwing an arm around the shoulder of the other man, "it ain't every day you get to be a new daddy. Besides, it's good luck to wish another man's kid to be okay, you know?"  
  
"Yeah, maybe," said his comrade as they walked down the hall, "but how'd he know? Mail isn't for another six hours yet. . ."

  
**Berchtesgaden, Bayern, Central Europe  
May 2, 0087**  
  
"'. . .ain't seen nothin' yet! Buh-buh-buh _BAY_-bee, you just ain't seen nuh-nuh-nothin' yet!'" sang de la Somme as he opened the door to von Seydlitz's office without so much as a knock or a whistle.   
  
The transformation was complete. What was once a wild-haired, wild-bearded hobo of a man was now a clean-shaven, short-haired person that might actually look like a soldier if you put him in something other than the tie-dyed T-shirt and stonewashed black denim he was wearing at this moment. His hair, while now dreadfully cropped, was still awry, retaining the appearance of comical cartoonery, but the revelation of the rest of his face to the outside air only served to accentuate the fact that his smile was his most prominent feature. The tapered nose took a backseat to the eyes.  
  
Those same eyes beheld von Seydlitz sitting behind the desk, fingers steepled under his nose, with his cold gray eyes boring into him with an intensity that was more chilling than a hundred Alpine winters. His tongue faltered on his song, and de la Somme trailed off into an uncomfortable silence under the harsh gaze.  
  
Minutes passed quietly, the only sounds coming from the mines outside. Chaos glared at Order, daring a word. Order simply watched, until Chaos finally gave in to its superior will.  
  
"Hi, Reinhardt," was what de la Somme said. Von Seydlitz said nothing.  
  
"Like my shirt?" The T-shirt was one he must have been stashing since the One-Year War. It was a jumble of psychedelic colors, with the words 'Voodoo Chile' etched in shock pink across the chest.  
  
Another minute passed uncomfortably. De la Somme began to fidget under his older foster brother's implacable scrutiny. "I missed you. Really, I did."  
  
Still, von Seydlitz only glowered, eyes never blinking.  
  
De la Somme began to sweat. "It's the cargo, isn't it? Look, I did my damnedest to fill ever single part and parcel of what you told me to get, but you have to understand that stuff like this isn't easy to get hold of, even nowadays with civvie _Gelgoogs_ and shit on the open market. I did the best with what I could weasel out of Granada and Zeonic, but the Titans have made business hard to do these days.  
  
"And the weapons," he continued, moving gingerly to sit down in the chair across the desk from von Seydlitz, whose eyes simply tracked him as he sat, "hoo-_wee_, the weapons were a pain in the ass! Gold's only as good as a salve for so long with that kinda pain, lemme tell you. I had to bribe more low-level dingleberries and no-load dipshits to get even close to what you asked for that I lost count after six _gabillion_ or something like that, and then there was getting a freighter BIG enough to haul a thousand tons of crap and it wasn't like I was going to just drop them but then I had to get past the patrols and it took forever and---"  
  
Von Seydlitz continued to stare at him. The grin sliding off his face like an avalanche, De la Somme started to feel a bit like a rabbit, being sized up for choice cuts by a hawk. _Or an eagle_, he admitted. _He's gotten BAD since I've been gone._  
  
De la Somme sighed, hanging his head low and folding his hands in his lap. "I've fucked up. I'm sorry, but I did my best," he bit his lower lip, his eyes turning downward away from von Seydlitz's dauntless, piercing discernment.  
  
After another eternity's moment of uncomfortable silence, Antares de la Somme mustered what strength he had left under the pressure and snapped to perfect attention, chair sliding backwards as he stood to his full height, eyes shifting to a point on the wall above von Seydlitz's head, the picture-perfect formal military stance.  
  
Von Seydlitz quirked an eyebrow, eyes still tracking de la Somme.   
  
"You're disappointed. I can tell. What do you want me to do, Colonel?" The 'Killing Star' was doing his best not to tremble from maintaining the full attention for the first time in four years.   
  
Then, von Seydlitz moved, placing his hands on the desktop and standing upright. Still not speaking, he moved towards a cabinet to the left of the desk, opening the doors to it and beginning to move things inside. De la Somme continued to stare at the wall, fighting the urge to glance at what von Seydlitz was doing, but knowing the Colonel's radar would pick it up instantly and then he would be made to truly suffer for the infraction.  
  
But de le Somme could not help but frown as he heard a gentle clink from inside the cabinet. After a moment, the tall man turned and moved towards de la Somme, two glasses and a bottle in his hands. Still silent, he pulled out the cork on the bottle, filling the room with the heady scent of molasses and alcohol. He poured two fingers of the black liquid in the bottle into the glasses, and then replaced the cork carefully, placing the bottle back on the desktop.  
  
Holding one glass in his right hand, he held out the glass in his left, offering it to his subordinate. "Stop your chatter and take the glass, _Kommandant_. Your hesitation is the only disappointment noted for the record."  
  
De la Somme's knees almost gave out from under him as he slid into an at-ease posture and accepted the glass, not fighting the urge to sniff at it.  
  
The taller von Seydlitz raised his glass. "_Zum Wohl_!" he said, wishing him good health before taking a sip, wondering if de la Somme would remember what to do with the drink.  
  
De la Somme raised his in return, also sipping. He'd encountered this beverage before, and its terrible side effects when slammed. One did not treat 180-proof Austrian black rum like a shooter.  
  
The Colonel slid into a sitting position on the desktop, which put his eyes roughly even with the standing de la Somme's. "You have done magnificently, Antares. Beyond my wildest expectations, in fact. Even _Generalmajor_ von Mellenthin would be pleased to speechlessness by your accomplishment. This was not an easy mission for you to perform, by any stretch of the imagination, and I know it."  
  
De la Somme smiled. "Then why give me the silent treatment, and the death stare on top of it?"  
  
"I had almost forgotten what you looked like. I was refreshing my memory." Von Seydlitz sipped again, masking a grin of his own at having made his younger foster brother squirm so effectively.  
  
"You're so full of shit, Reinhardt," shot back de la Somme, his smile getting even bigger.  
  
And with that, it was back to normalcy between them.

  
"What you have brought to Earth is enough to equip this entire company with what we'll need to make Nemesis complete. The mobile suits are incredible, so far advanced beyond anything we had in the War. The Federation will never suspect that we have come so far in our capabilities. This Division owes you a debt of gratitude, Antares. You have given us the chance at legacy once again."  
  
De la Somme actually blushed. "It wasn't all that, Reinhardt. I even got the colors right, though."  
  
"These suits will give the Division life again, and we will use them to their fullest. It does help that the colors are correct. I trust there were no difficulties with the paint schemes everyone wanted?"  
  
"Not a one. I threw so much gold at them that they could squeeze any colors in the spectrum they wanted to out of the bars, if I asked them."  
  
Von Seydlitz's face looked a bit grim. "The last mission before going home, possibly forever. After this, then what? Will we be content to be retirees, or is this just the prelude to a larger conflict?"  
  
"I'd like the latter, thanks. Axis approaches by the day, bringing their own suits and production factories, not to mention the last of the Zavis, back to the Earth Sphere. It'll be a war totally different from the other one. All we've gotta do is show up for the curtain call."  
  
"We can do that on Side 3. The 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ Division will leave Earth as an intact fighting force. Axis will take us by virtue of our value, or they will regret their shortsightedness. Only we know what the Federation can do now, and what the Titans can do. Our intelligence is inestimable, and our reputation unblemished. They will see what we can do with Nemesis, and that will persuade them."  
  
De la Somme finished his rum, his smile still plastered across his face. "Besides, who'd turn up their noses at the most ass-kickingest Zeon unit in the One-Year War?"  
  
"The conquerors of Minsk—"  
  
"Warsaw---"  
  
"Berlin---"  
  
"Prague---"  
  
"Zurich---"  
  
"And Paris---"  
  
They finished together. "---_ALL IN SIX WEEKS!_"  
  
Even von Seydlitz laughed, as the office filled with the sound of their merriment, the memories shared as easily as the rum. De la Somme wiped at his face with his hands, trying to stop laughing but having a hard time of it. He knew von Seydlitz would never have laughed in front of anyone else, except Dietrich von Mellenthin, and it warmed his heart to know that had never changed.  
  
His laughter trickling away, von Seydlitz began to sober after the release. "So, Antares: how is Father?"  
  
That single question moved across de la Somme's face like the very hand of God itself, replacing mirth with pain, and joy with anguish. Never able to conceal an emotion in his life for more than ten seconds, Antares de la Somme burst into tears. A childlike instinct took over as he stepped forward, dropping the glass to the floor to shatter. He wrapped both his arms around von Seydlitz and buried his face into his older foster brother's shirt, weeping uncontrollably.  
  
It never failed to shock von Seydlitz when this happened, no matter how many times he'd seen it. His own arms came up to enfold de la Somme in an embrace, of an accord all their own, defying the upright and sober Prussian's emotional control as a memory slashed its way into his consciousness from so long ago. . .  
  
_The oily stink of the burning vehicles was mixed with the smell of cooking flesh, a scent not unlike burning pork. Eight-year old Reinhardt von Seydlitz sat on the curb of the sidewalk at the corner of _Roemerstrasse_ and _Sankt Goar's Weg_ on New Koenigsberg. He held tightly to the trembling form clutched in the embrace of his left arm, as the small child, who could have been no more than four years old, wept as though the universe was collapsing upon him. The boy had both hands clutching at von Seydlitz's back so hard it was as though the child wanted to pierce his ribcage with his fingers, and the tightness of his embrace was almost uncomfortable. But what made this tableau of carnage that much more terrible was that this child was not merely sobbing: he was crying so hard he was _SCREAMING_ into von Seydlitz's shirt, the reverberations threatening to overwhelm the mask of inscrutability that the older boy had long since built into his face. He could feel the depths of this child's loss in his own soul, for it was a familiar sound to him, and he hated the fact that he'd forgotten it himself.  
  
Von Seydlitz's right arm was not wrapped around the wailing boy, but was extended up and outright, his fingers touching the wrist of the standing ten-year old Dietrich von Mellenthin. The older boy, already showing signs of the physical strength he would be renowned for later in life, was trembling himself from a palpable rage, as he glared with hate-filled eyes at the older man before him, wishing he could be released to tear him apart with his bare hands.  
  
Von Seydlitz knew that it was the older man who had caused all of this, some Federation bigwig diplomat with immunity, out drinking and driving during the DAY, when traffic was heaviest and he was bound to kill someone. Today must have been a banner day, because he'd managed to kill two in one hit, when his government-issue car smashed headlong into a sedan with three passengers in it. The two older passengers had died shrieking, as they burned to death while trapped in the front seat with broken arms and legs. Their young son, stunned by the impact, nearly burned himself, and would have if not for von Mellenthin and von Seydlitz. All three of them stank of the smoke, their faces and arms and clothes blackened by the soot and oil, von Mellenthin's knuckles bleeding from when he'd punched out the window to allow the skinnier von Seydlitz to slide into the wreck, lithe as a snake, to get the boy out before the two vehicles were completely consumed in the blaze. There had been no time to save the other two, and their cries echoed still in von Seydlitz's mind.  
  
The drunk had walked out of his car on his own, and was now claiming diplomatic immunity against any prosecution from New Koenigsberg. The _Polizei_ had twin looks of disgust, as did the _Feuerwehrmaenner_ and the _Sanitaeter_ present, but all of them put together could not match the look of absolute fury on the face of von Mellenthin. Von Seydlitz, from his position, could only see the lower left side of his older foster brother's face, but it was enough to know that von Mellenthin would gladly have wrapped his powerful hands around this man's neck and squeezed until he'd crushed the diplomat's spine. Only von Seydlitz's touch on his wrist held him back from doing exactly that. _  
  
That had been their first meeting with Antares de la Somme, who was in his arms now, as he had been then. As much as de la Somme could drive him to near-madness, he was still his brother. Von Seydlitz kissed him on the head, and then rested his chin atop de la Somme's skull. "Tell me, Antares."  
  
With monumental effort, the ace managed to bring his tears down to a low sniffling. "He-he's dead, Reinhardt. Your father's dead."  
  
_For the second time_, thought von Seydlitz, trying to find some form of emotion to reflect this but unable to find one. He could not cry himself. He had forgotten how after the One-Year War. He would have to find the time to discover it once more later.  
  
He barely remembered his birth father. Maxim von Seydlitz and his wife had died in an airlock malfunction while doing an inspection of the Colony Corporation tunnels on New Koenigsberg, when von Seydlitz was six years old. That year, because he was the last scion of a House, it was decided that he would be adopted into one of the other Houses to be raised, his fosterhood preserving his own name until the line could be propagated and continued on its own.  
  
That was when Gerrold von Mellenthin had been impressed upon by his own son, Dietrich, to adopt the orphaned von Seydlitz. Politically, it was an astute move, merging the bloodlines of Hessen and Brandenburg-Preussen in the Council of Electors. Rising to the challenge, the elder von Mellenthin had lobbied the Council to allow the fostering. It was granted, and Gerrold von Mellenthin had become von Seydlitz's new father.  
  
He could remember the bearlike man, always gruff and earnest with his family, shaking his small hand within his larger one as the formal greeting of a new father to a new son, albeit one so vastly different from his own blood it was like letting an alien into his home. But he, and his wife Ingrid, had never shown von Seydlitz anything but love and welcome, as if he were their own child. It was precisely what needed to be done, and von Seydlitz had called them Father and Mother in return, and used first names with von Mellenthin instead of the traditional last name.  
  
He thought it would be a harder blow than this to take. Perhaps later, it would be.  
  
"Tell me what happened. Leave nothing out." He rubbed a hand on de la Somme's back, awkward as always in this kind of situation.  
  
De la Somme's voice was deadly calm now, but he did not move out of von Seydlitz's embrace as he spoke. When he'd finished, he finally moved away, grinding the heels of his hands over his eyes.  
  
"I guess I'm still the crybaby, aren't I?"  
  
Von Seydlitz forced a smile. "I am used to it, Antares. Thank you for being so forthcoming, and not trying to do something stupid like hide this."  
  
"No problem, really," replied the ace pilot, rubbing off the last of his tears and trying to place a grin back on his lips. They'd been through so much misery together that it was amazing it even affected them anymore.  
  
Von Seydlitz rose, placing both his hands on de la Somme's shoulders. "Go get some rest. Tomorrow night, we begin using the simulators to learn how to pilot these wonderful mobile suits you have acquired for us. We have much to make many people pay dearly for, and not much time to do it in."  
  
"Yes, _Oberst_," was the reply, sounding just on the bright side of miserable. "Who do I get first?"  
  
"Ask _Stabsfeldwebel_ Ogun. I am not making the schedule."  
  
"Heh," chuckled de la Somme, his color beginning to return to normal along with his mood. "That bastard's probably put me up against you first."   
  
Sergeant Major Inaba Ogun was one of de la Somme's 15th 'Tyrant Tornadoes' men, and as the senior surviving NCO of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_, he had harbored an intense case of hurt feelings that de la Somme had not taken him into space with him. This would be a quaint vengeance; de la Somme had to admit that going up against von Seydlitz first after eight years without piloting a mobile suit would be a challenge for even his own abilities.  
  
Especially a new type of suit, whose capabilities were known on paper but not on a personal level. But, that was the breaks.  
  
_I'm gonna kick your ass, Reinhardt, baby,_ he thought smugly, amber eyes (slightly reddened) meeting the gray eyes of von Seydlitz.  
  
_You and what army, _Kommandant_?_ was what the return look replied.  
  
**_Kehlsteinberge_, Bayern, Central Europe  
May 2, 0087**  
  
"There's not a goddamned thing up here except freighter hash, sir!" yelled the Sergeant over the rotor wash noise to the Lieutenant commanding the search-and-rescue mission.  
  
"I'm inclined to agree, Sergeant," replied the officer, staring out the open door of the HV-22D Osprey IV STO/VL heli-plane, a pair of binoculars in his gloved hands. The crash site was a blackened smear on the side of the mountain. If one looked closely, one could almost make out which pieces of debris were the freighter's and which were the mountain's. "Any sign of the cargo section?"  
  
"Negative! He must've jettisoned it during the descent!"  
  
"Well, there's not much to it, then. If anything survived, the locals might find it in a few months or so. It's pretty desolate up here, and I don't think we should risk trying to land this brute on that hill."  
  
The Sergeant thought that was the best idea he'd heard all day. The Osprey IV was a nimble beast, but not particularly light or economical, and this mountain was not anyone's idea of a plateau. "Shall we try to sweep the forest below, sir?"  
  
"I'm not inclined to report that as being necessary. The pilot's section and the majority of the superstructure are here, and it's obvious that nothing could have survived. Send word to Bonn that this isn't even worth a salvage operation."  
  
"Understood, sir."  
  
With a quick pivot and a burst of speed, the HV-22D converted to its airplane mode and flew away, leaving behind any hope of ever discovering the truth of the "crash".  
  
Operation Nemesis had been birthed by the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_. It would be the Federation that would allow it to mature.   
  
  



	5. Chapter 4

**MSG: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed  
  
Chapter 4  
  
Berchtesgaden, Bayern, Central Europe  
August 18, 0087**  
  
The world came to a jarring crash for Reinhardt von Seydlitz as his black-and-gold MS-07B3 _Gouf Custom_ slammed shoulder-first into the ground, exacting a grimace from its pilot's face and a snarl from his lips. The stream of high-velocity tracer ammunition that forced the maneuver lashed its way across the space where the _Gouf Custom_ had been, chewing apart the terrain instead of his armor. Maintaining his equilibrium, he brought the left arm of the downed mobile suit up and cut loose a torrent from his own 75mm Gatling cannon, filling the treeline where the offender lay concealed with an illuminated stream of armor-piercing lead.   
  
As he brought the struggling _Gouf Custom_ back to its feet, a burst from his left flank caressed his shield, the smack of the rounds impacting the Luna Titanium like hail on a tin roof; except that this hail was far more adept at ablating the surface of the only protection he had against incoming fire. On the other hand, the staccato made for an excellent spur in motivating him to get his mobile suit upright and moving again.  
  
Verdammt! _Another one! Haskell must have failed!_  
  
He wheeled the _Gouf Custom_ about and dove behind a bluff that offered a suitable defilade from three sides, even for something the size of his suit. That would buy him a little time to regroup.  
  
A burst on the surface of the defilade, too hard for machine gun rounds, told him otherwise. Debris from the impact rained down on his suit's armored back and shoulders, and the dust cloud was quite extensive. It was a big hit; he'd felt the vibrations through the stick he was grasping.  
  
_880mm bazooka. One of the _Dom Tropens. _Which one, Ogun or Kerr? And where the hell is Dalyev?_ Things were not looking so grand for the 358th 'Unsullied' today.  
  
Von Seydlitz toggled his transmit switch to the unit 'push'. "_Oberleutnant_ Dalyev, acknowledge." Static hissed as his answer. The sweat under his arms and on his face began to itch intolerably as the stress began to sensitize him to other discomforts. The air conditioner was already working overtime.   
  
Another 880mm round smashed into the defilade, which was beginning to crumble from the punishment. Quickly, he stuck the head of the _Gouf Custom_ above the ridge of the bluff, letting the main camera get a good look, and then shrank back down again. He found what he had been looking for, the mammoth red-and-white mobile suit sporting the angry-eyed wind funnel sigil on its left leg, opposite the golden standard of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ on the right leg.  
  
_That is Kerr's_ Dom Tropen. _He is keeping me pinned down. Why? What are they waiting for?_ His _Gouf Custom_ had taken some superficial damage thus far, but was otherwise a sitting duck for the three opposing mobile suits. They could finish him at their leisure, at the cost of perhaps one of their number. Were they being commanded by him, they would have rushed his position.  
  
_Unless it is ONLY Kerr. . .and de la Somme._  
  
As if from nowhere, a red-and-white twin to his own _Gouf Custom_ rocketed up from the other side of the defilade, arcing into the sky, heat saber raised for a killing blow. Von Seydlitz kicked his own thrusters on, blasting his own _Gouf Custom_ back and away from the strike area of the other mobile suit, but keeping the wall of the bluff between himself and the _Dom Tropen_. The aggressor _Gouf Custom's_ heat saber slashed air, and then reversed itself into a guard stance behind the wielder's shield, the white star-and-sword on the right breast a garish reminder of who this pilot was, as only aces rated three insignia on their suits in the 10th; Division, Battalion, and personal.  
  
As his mobile suit wheeled backwards, stumbling a bit from the speed of its reverse, von Seydlitz lashed out with his arm-mounted e-whip at the red-and-white _Gouf Custom_, who sidestepped it with an ease that made von Seydlitz want to vomit.  
  
"You're getting too old for this shit, Reinhardt, baby," taunted de la Somme from his _Gouf Custom_, his voice ringing out on the loudspeaker instead of the radio. "Maybe you oughtta consider taking up knitting, before you hurt yourself out here and end up like Dalyev and Haskell."   
  
"Maybe you should consider surrendering, _Kommandant_," replied von Seydlitz, thankful his face could not be seen by the other pilot. He did not know if he could keep the tension off of it, and he could feel his lips pulling back from his teeth despite his best efforts.   
  
His bones were aching from the strain of combat, and his skull was pounding as his mind tried desperately to keep up with everything around it. He did not fail to notice that the _Dom Tropen_ was moving, kicking up a lot of dust from its ground effect thrusters as it glided at tremendous speed around the bluff to join into the fight. For ground speed, few things could match the MS-09 series, and von Seydlitz took the opportunity to lament the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_'s inability to acquire _Doms_ during the War yet again.  
  
De la Somme's laugh was almost derisive, especially with the almost robotic quality the speaker gave it. "Surrender? I can't _spell_ such a long word, _Oberst_! I like 'victor' better. Rolls off the tongue so smoothly, especially when it applies to someone as neat as me."   
  
"So does 'bastard'."  
  
A _tsk, tsk_ sound came across the speaker. "Bad Colonel, setting such an example for your men. Harsh language won't get you the swift death you want, you know. You _might_ want to try being nicer to the guy who's gonna inherit all your stuff now that you're about to be a smoking hole on Terra."   
  
"I cut you out of the will a long time ago, whelp," he quipped as he brought the _Gouf Custom's_ arm came up and loosed another barrage of 75mm rounds. De la Somme's suit dove to the right, returning fire as it moved.  
  
Private Nolan Kerr's MS-09F _Dom Tropen_ slid into position, staying on von Seydlitz's left as it brought the 880mm bazooka to bear. It was apparent that it had been in a fight, judging by the fact that the larger suit was missing its left arm below the elbow, and there were pits in its armor that suggested 90mm machine gun fire, so von Seydlitz knew that Haskell and Dalyev went down fighting. Von Seydlitz opened up the thrusters and launched his _Gouf Custom_ into a powered jump that took him away a hair's breadth before Kerr could get a solid bead on him with the RB-T27 bazooka. He paid the price as 35mm shells from de la Somme started chewing away at the shoulder armor of his right arm, snipping off the prominent spike in their barrage.  
  
_Antares is out of 75mm shells!_ Sure enough, de la Somme's _Gouf Custom_ was missing the Gatling cannon from its shield, apparently jettisoned sometime earlier. He landed as deftly as he could and slewed around to the left again, opening fire on the _Dom Tropen_ with the remainder of his own 75mm ammunition. Kerr was so intent on getting the bazooka on target that the rounds hit the stationary suit before the pilot could react. The high-velocity tracers tore holes in the torso and upper arms of the big red-and-white 'Tyrant Tornadoes' suit. The _Dom Tropen_ folded and crumpled to the ground, out of the fight. Its glaring green mono-eye went dark.  
  
But there was no time to celebrate. De la Somme cut on the speed and closed the distance between their suits faster than he could bring the 75mm Gatling around to engage him. In desperation, the right hand of the _Gouf Custom_ snagged the heat saber and drew it, barely managing to parry de la Somme's. The crashing ring as the two heated swords met and separated shook both the suits, and set von Seydlitz's teeth on edge. It was a high-pitched keening sound that you could feel in your guts.   
  
_Clumsy fool!_ he berated himself angrily. _Do not block with the damned EDGE!_ It was only dumb luck that the two blades did not shatter from the impacts. As it was, he knew his own blade now had a sizeable notch in its edge.   
Swinging the heat saber in three successive overhead chops to keep de la Somme occupied, he ejected the now-empty 75mm Gatling from his shield, enabling him to bring his left hand into the fight. A spray of 35mm warshots bought him a little distance, but de la Somme was relentless. The sabers clanged against each other again and again, each pilot acting and reacting with only milliseconds to spare between actions. 

  
De la Somme struck first blood, with a sudden reversal of an overhead slash into an upward stab that cut deeply into von Seydlitz's suit's right side. He felt the impact as the suit shuddered like a wounded man who'd just been laid open with a blade.   
  
And then he began to get angry. _The little_ Range _just STABBED me!_  
  
Balling the left fist of his _Gouf Custom_, von Seydlitz's mobile suit followed its pilot's command, reared back, and punched its opponent in the head. De la Somme's suit reeled from the blow, staggering to maintain its balance.  
  
This was his last chance: to goad de la Somme into doing something rash. It was dirty manipulation, but von Seydlitz had just about run out of options, and he had to even the playing field somehow. Despite a fatigue that had his soul crying out for relief, he grinned. Slugging a mobile suit was not standard field procedure when in suit-to-suit combat, except with the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_.  
  
The metallic tenor rang out from de la Somme's suit. "Ohhhh, we're getting serious now, are we? Let's dance, Reinhardt!"   
  
_Got you_. "My kind of dancing is a contact sport, _Kommandant_."   
  
And von Seydlitz went on the offensive, driving on the other _Gouf Custom_ with all the fury he could muster. He managed to sever de la Somme's right arm assembly at about the wrist, removing the hand from the arm, but not enough to disable his e-whip.  
  
"Slick, _Oberst_, but not good enough to catch this Gingerbread Man!" sang de la Somme's voice into von Seydlitz's head.  
  
_BAM! BAM! BAM!_ went the 35mm staccato across his torso, jarring him enough that he tasted blood on his lips. The onboard computer began screaming at him that the reactor was damaged, and there were multiple points of serious internal damage to the suit. He thumbed the manual override and pressed onward, each attack pushing de la Somme further towards the treeline. He flicked the right hand open, tossing the heat saber into his left hand and catching it with ease, and then shifted the movement into an underhand slash that cut across the red-and-white surface of de la Somme's suit, scarring its torso and carving a diagonal across the star-and-sword symbol.   
  
At about ten meters to the treeline, de la Somme began to get nimble. He began rocking the _Gouf Custom_ from its left foot to its right, like a boxer, concentrating on defending from von Seydlitz's attacks rather than counterattacking himself. His shield absorbed the brunt of the remaining 35mm ammo from von Seydlitz, which reduced this fight to nothing more than a melee. De la Somme reminded him of this by kicking his suit in the gut with a foot.  
  
The two _Gouf Customs_ danced back and forth for what seemed an eternity, each pilot bringing to bear every skill they had developed during the One-Year War for the purpose of overcoming the other. The audacious de la Somme's style was easily an even match for the mechanically-precise von Seydlitz's, and for a time it was apparent that something was going to have to give before an edge could be found. Shields in tatters, heat sabers notching, and with no ammunition in either suit, it appeared that the only clear winner of this was whoever did not simply die in their cockpit from the strain.  
  
Then it seemed the end was finally there. De la Somme swept his right arm backwards for a power slash; so far back it shifted the aspect of his entire suit, and exposed his left side behind his shield. Von Seydlitz brought both hands onto the heat saber and chopped downward, slapping the blade from the hand of de la Somme's suit, then stabbing the tip right through the mono-eye of the 'Tyrant Tornadoes' _Gouf Custom_.  
  
"Ouch!! Nice tag, Reinhardt, baby."   
  
"Concede defeat and I will let you live to call it a draw."  
  
De la Somme laughed, ever cheerful. "You're such the nobleman, Colonel. But I don't think so."   
  
Von Seydlitz's eyebrows rose. "And why is that, exactly?"  
  
Rather than respond by word, de la Somme responded with action. The e-whip he'd lashed out when his right arm swung backwards had managed to attach itself by its grappler to a tree trunk, previously damaged by stray fire. With a tug, the e-whip and its cargo pulled free and came around like a horseman's flail. The hardwood smashed into von Seydlitz's _Gouf Custom_ at great velocity, shattering into splinters and knocking the 73-ton mobile suit to the ground. It landed with a thump that shook the leaves from some of the nearby trees.  
  
Before the black-and-gold 'Unsullied' suit completed its landing, de la Somme had pulled the heat saber from the head of his own suit and had it impaled through the grounded von Seydlitz's right shoulder, pinning the other suit to the earth.  
  
"I'd extend your offer to me to yourself, Reinhardt, but I'd rather just see you dead."  
  
_I bet you would._ With a jerk on the sticks, von Seydlitz's _Gouf Custom_ scissored its legs and swept de la Somme's suit off its feet. The resounding crash it made when it hit spurred him on, reaching out with the left hand to pull the heat saber from his suit and release the machine back into the fight. He had just managed to pull it free when de la Somme rolled his suit, kippupped it to its feet, and was preparing to extend the e-whip to finish von Seydlitz off.   Von Seyditz knew he would not be able to get the mobile suit to its feet before the e-whip tagged him and he was finished.  
  
True to form, de la Somme almost casually flicked the magnetic lash towards his torso, a massive taser with which to put the 'Unsullied' suit out of this fight for good.   
  
Von Seydlitz, in a movement so fast it was a blur, caught the tip of the e-whip on the flat of the heat saber, then released it as de la Somme's _Gouf Custom_ began dumping electricity across the e-whip's length.  
  
He maintained enough awareness to hear de la Somme's incredulous voice spit out "What the _fuck_??", and then his head was filled with sound as he power-tackled the other _Gouf Custom_, bringing both suits to the ground again, but this time the tables had been turned in his favor.  
  
With his _Gouf Custom_ sitting astride de la Somme's, knees pinning the arms of the other suit to the ground, von Seydlitz reached down with his own hands and grabbed de la Somme's head, then began to methodically smash it into the ground.  
  
"Do not" **SLAM** "presume" **SLAM** "that an enemy" **SLAM** "is helpless" **SLAM** "until you" **SLAM** "make them so," **SLAM** "_Kommandant_," he barked through the loudspeaker, enjoying the feel of having the other mobile suit's head flattening under the power of his fists.   
  
This was why it was such a surprise when the point of a heat saber burst through the left side of his torso, causing every light in the cockpit to go red and every warning sound to scream that this suit was a dead machine. He cursed under his breath, stunned, as he stared through the main camera at the several decimeters' worth of heat saber jutting from the left side of his _Gouf Custom_.  
  
_That is_ MY _heat saber!_ The realization hit him as the entire world went dark before his eyes, his suit shutting itself down as the reactor coughed up its last bit of power and then ceased operating.   
  
De la Somme's e-whip had managed to maintain its grip on the saber even as it began to melt from the residual heat. Then, as von Seydlitz had been punishing his suit so violently, he'd simply slipped the saber closer and closer to their position, before giving it a hard tug and driving the point through the thinner rear armor of von Seydlitz's suit.  
  
The hiss and pop as the simulator door opened, and the rush of cooler, moist air was almost a baptism after the awful stink of the interior and the heat the combat had built up in its pilot. The sound of cheers and whistles assailed his ears, and he realized that probably every member of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ had watched this fight. Von Seydlitz began unbuckling himself from the apparatus, feeling the hands of others on his shoulders and arms to help pull him out of the rear entry hatch to the simulator capsule. He did not protest. He felt as weak as a kitten, after this one. Fighting de la Somme was worse than fighting any three other pilots, and that included the notoriously aggressive Margul.  
  
Instinctively, he glanced at the chronometer inside the capsule, and was horrified by the time. _FOUR hours!! We were in there for four HOURS! No surprise I feel so wretched now, is it?_  
  
As he was bodily lifted from the confines of the simulator and back into the world outside, it was indeed apparent that the men had stopped what they were doing to watch the titans clash. _Damn. And we still have suits to finish putting together. I need an example. . ._  
  
Managing to clear his throat without it being conspicuous, he spoke aloud, "_Hauptfeldwebel_ la Vesta. I will hope for your sake that you completed the mission I assigned to you before taking yourself away from it."  
  
Master Sergeant Wolfram la Vesta, commander of the 186th 'Deep Dwellers' Amphibious Platoon (formerly Battalion), ran a hand through his black, curly hair. "Hemphill's finishing the last batch of mixing now, Colonel. Mom didn't raise anyone in the family stupid enough to leave white phosphorus lying around by itself."   
  
Judging by la Vesta's heritage, von Seydlitz did not doubt that.  La Vesta's mother was an Italian, and his father a Dane, thus producing a being with Mediterranean coloring, VERY blue eyes, and an attention to detail that had made the 'Deep Dwellers' a very efficient and effective amphibious assault team. Von Seydlitz aimed his eyes at the subterranean lake further down the sublevel, where the ten short tons of white phosphorus were being prepared for their intended purpose. Sure enough, the bulbous head of Private Nestor Hemphill's MSM-07E _Z'Gok E_ was sloshing around in the water, its claw-like manipulators underneath the surface where the floodlights illuminated the dark brine water.  
  
Hemphill had been immediately the one to ask for about this portion of Nemesis. He was the unit cook, almost good enough to be a master chef if he was not already a soldier. La Vesta had handed him the recipe for what they needed and he took to it like Mario Batali on an alfredo sauce.   
  
"Excellent," he said, turning his attention back to his men. There were a few missing. "Break time is over, _meinen Rebell_. Get back to your tasks and out of the tactical area."   
  
With a few more backslaps and laughs, the men began to disperse. Von Seydlitz wiped a hand across his face, suddenly feeling dizzy from the endorphins flooding his system. He was beginning to wonder if he was going to collapse before reaching his office when the animate fireball that was Antares de la Somme slammed into him and wrapped him in a bear hug.   
  
"Woo-_HOOO!!_ That was the COOLEST thing _ever_, Reinhardt! I haven't had that much fun in YEARS! We've gotta do that again! Can we? How about tomorrow after dinner? C'mon, you _know_ you wanna! You had fun, I can tell, and maybe we can even get six _more_ in there and make it a REAL challenge! Yeah, in fact, I think we should do just that, since that's the next stage in the training schedule coming up anyway once the platoon trials are done! You might even _win_ this time, too, but you need to bludgeon Haskell for tripping his _Zaku Cannon_ in that ditch line, and Dalyev needs to learn that the _Zaku Kai_ is NOT a baseline _Zaku II_ even if it feels like one. I think you should hit them with pipes. NO, sticks. _NO_, cinderblocks, even better!! But that was SOOO great anyway! You've gotten AWESOME in there, too! Packard must've been a GOD out there with that modded-up _Gouf, _don'tcha think_?"   
  
_"Let go of me, _Kommandant_," was the choked reply. Von Seydlitz was having difficulty breathing even before de la Somme attached himself to him and began to constrict. Thankfully, the younger Commander complied with his request, and he maintained his own balance in the process. Besides, de la Somme reeked of sweat, salt, and adrenalin, a tripartite combination that von Seydlitz's olfactory senses were not willing to tolerate for lengthy amounts of time at this moment.   
  
"Hey, I've gotta get back in there and run Weissdrake's boys through the bitchslap. Thanks for chatting,_ mein Bruder_, and I'll catch you later, 'kay?"  
  
With a slap on the back and a wave, de la Somme was off heading for the simulators again, laughing and joking with whomever he came into contact with. Von Seydlitz shook his head wearily and began his trek towards his chair, amazed as always by just how much enjoyment someone could get out of simulator training. This would be de la Somme's third time in the sims today. While the capsules and their programs approximated the best and worst of mobile suit combat, complete with knocking a pilot around in his own cockpit when called for, not to mention spitting sparks, smoke, and all the accompaniments of sustaining damage, it was only a simulator, and Antares de la Somme had always loved video games.  
  
_Enjoy it while it lasts, Antares. Once Weissdrake gets those ships to Regensburg, Nemesis becomes the only life we have for a very long time. _  
  
Simulators notwithstanding, everything was proceeding on schedule. No one seemed to mind that weeks were passing, as long as something got accomplished each day. All but three of the mobile suits were already constructed, tested, and deemed fit for combat; the other three would be before the end of the month. After that, it was train, train, and train some more until Commander Karl Weissdrake delivered the cargo ships to their destination. The rest of the logistics were being dealt with already. The deliveries had been on time, with no unexpected delays. In fact, with the exception of the ships, everything was perfect.  
  
_"Seven MONTHS??"  
  
"That's what Leiger said. That is how long it will take to get all three ships rigged for IMO regulation, then gather a crew, then ship them to Regensburg from Duisberg."  
  
"WE have the crews already. Did you inform him of that, Karl?"  
  
"_Ja, Oberst_, but it makes little difference. These are three eight-hundred ton transports, and unless you want to use external tanks to stash the 'cargo', what we require is going to take an overhaul of the interior compartments of all three ships. It's impossible to bend the laws of physics and time to suit our needs in this matter."  
  
"You try telling _that_ to _Generalmajor_ von Mellenthin, _Kommandant_. He would have you strung up by your entrails for the pleasure of hearing you scream."  
  
"I would tell him exactly what I told you, and you know it, _Oberst_ von Seydlitz. But I can't tell him, so I'm telling you. You're going to have to push Nemesis back a few more weeks. We have waited years, von Seydlitz, what is a few weeks compared to that? An inconvenience, that's all."   
  
An 'inconvenience', he said to me._ Von Seydlitz slumped down into his chair, resting his head in his hands. _So tired. And so anxious to get Nemesis on the road already. The further we delay, the more time there is for something to go wrong._ He could have throttled Weissdrake if he could have only reached through the telephone. That conversation had been over two months ago, and it never failed to make his world go red just recollecting it.  
  
_The odds are against us with each passing moment. The Titans grow more powerful every day, and the world is changing as we sit under this mountain and dream the dreams of conquerors. Jaburo has been destroyed. Abowaku has been relocated. Titans are attacking Granada and Von Braun with everything from mobile suits to colonies, and Axis gets that much closer. If we don't move soon—_  
  
A sudden thought snapped him back into focus. "Dalyev! Haskell! _Kommen Sie hier, jetzt_!" he roared out the office door, certain the two would hear him, and be absolutely in a hurry to receive the cussing out he was going to give them.  
  
**Steinbaum, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe  
August 20, 0087**  
  
"—all I'm saying is that Commander Weissdrake's probably getting fat and comfy while stuck in Duisberg. I mean, he could be out here in the fucking boonies with—" was about as far as Private Gary van Allen got when the motor noise of the Ditch Witch went abruptly silent. He put the hand hoe he'd been using aside, closed his eyes, turned around, and opened them. . .  
  
. . .to find Marine Captain John Roberts looking up at him with a bemused expression on his face and a hurtlock in his eyes. "Private, I believe you were saying something a moment ago. Repeat it."   
  
Van Allen cleared his throat and stood at attention. "Sir, I was just pointing out that—"   
  
"No, Private, you were _fucking_ pointing out that Commander Karl Weissdrake of the 555th Airborne was fat and comfortable in Duisberg instead of being here in the 'boonies' with us. Is that not the case, Private?"  
  
"Yes, sir," replied van Allen, his voice on the edge of something resembling shame.  
  
The third member of their team, Lieutenant Lucian McKenna, winced a little bit as he continued uncoiling the long, copper-colored wire being laid in this particular 20 cm. deep ditch. The three Marines of the 22nd 'Onslaught' had been out here for several weeks now, digging and placing and testing and generally getting tired of the bright orange _Bundespublikwerk_ uniforms they were wearing and the rustic Westphalian charms of Steinbaum, nestled at the southeastern edge of the foreboding woodlands known as the Teutobergerwald. Van Allen, being the lowest-ranked, was having the hardest time of it, since he could simply not remember to keep his mouth shut around Captain Roberts.  
  
_Opinions'll get you buried like these Hall probes, kiddo,_ he thought, angling this strand of probe so it would cross perfectly with the previous strand, which would run perpendicular to the new arrival, forming a very precise grid coordinate. The time this was taking, already several days behind schedule due to weather and social gatherings in the area, was almost worth seeing his latest idea come to life. _God, _he thought desperately_, please let this work, for the sake of us all, and please don't let Captain Roberts gut Gary like a fish._  
  
"The last time I noticed, Private," continued Roberts, his own voice calm and his eyes unwavering from the face two inches away from them, "you wore the insignia of the Zeon Marines on your uniform. You know the one I'm referring to, don't you, Private?"   
  
"Yes, sir!"   
  
"It's the one with the anchor and the bird and the _semper fidelis_, correct, Private?"   
  
"Yes, sir!"  
  
"Is the bird _fucking_ the anchor, Private?"  
  
"No, sir!" Van Allen was beginning to sweat a bit.  
  
Roberts was not. "Then I want you to explain to me, Private," as his voice began to increase in volume, "why it is that you wear this insignia, and all the pride and heritage that comes with it, and yet you cannot refrain. . ."   
  
If it were physically possible for Roberts's face to get any closer to van Allen's without kissing him, it was a matter of microns only. ". . .from using _fucking_ profanity while idly discussing matters pertaining to other Zeon _officers_ and having the gall to judge their merit based on their mission! Do you _fucking_ hear me, Private!?!"   
  
"Yes, sir!"  
  
"Now if I _ever_ hear you slander another officer in this Division, from _any_ unit, using language of that manner and verdicts of that nature, even if said officer is, _in fact_, sitting on his _ass_ in a hotel in Duisberg because that officer is _NOT_ a Marine and _NOT_ assigned to getting Colonel von Seydlitz's plan to its successful readiness, all of which amounts to you _spouting horse piss from your mouth_ onto that insignia that you _fucking_ wear on your uniform _instead of doing YOUR JOB. . ._!!"   
  
Roberts's teeth were snapping so close to van Allen's face it was a wonder that they weren't chewing apart his skin. ". . .then I will _RUN you around this entire goddamn forest so_ FUCKING _far and so_ FUCKING _fast that your **ASS CHEEKS** will FALL OFF your worthless, enlisted HIDE, Marine!! And when you reach down to put your **ASS CHEEKS** back on so that you can KEEP RUNNING, I will commence to truly KICK your **ASS **that much harder, because Marines'** ASS CHEEKS** do NOT FALL OFF, **DO THEY**, Private!?!"   
  
"N-NO, SIR!"  
  
"_Good_ fucking_ answer, troop! Now get back to work and cease that behavior from this point onward, or I will show you the pain a tongue can cause its wielder. I don't give a care on Terra how long we're out here doing this, because the longer it takes because _YOU_ want to voice an opinion, the longer your penance for playing patty-cake on _MY_ time will endure once we return to Berchtesgaden. Move it!"   
  
With a salute and a tremble in his frame he did not have earlier, van Allen picked up his hoe and recommenced working on the trench. Roberts glared at the taller Marine for a long moment, then turned and went back to the Ditch Witch. He was angry, and he could not remember the last time he'd used so much profanity on anything.   
  
But the fact remained that there were still two kilometers of this stuff that had to be set, and that was going to take forever as the weather began to turn from summer to autumn, and the cold began to settle throughout Europe. Then it would snow, and there was where misery lay.   
  
_Piss on you, van Allen. I want out of here, too._ He cranked up the Ditch Witch again and started moving, aiming in a straight line for about 300 meters on this run, as displayed on the laminated chart in front of him. If this worked, not even God could help the Federation from the punishment they would receive from the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ Division this time.  
  
All they had to do was survive long enough to see it. Roberts gritted his teeth and set himself to work, the churning of the black earth below him no less turbulent than the churning of impatience in his soul.   
  
**_Kehlsteinberge_, Bayern, Central Europe  
August 22, 0087**  
  
It all started with a walk in the mountains and a phone call, but that path could not be seen to its end by anyone except God perhaps. Thusly, it all started with just a walk in the mountains.   
  
They were a fairly typical German family, from Ligeretalm, out for a picnic and a walk near the site of long-dead Adolf Hitler's Eagle's Nest hideaway (a place he only visited once in his lifetime, for he was severely acrophobic, and the trip up _Kehlsteinberge_ was not one to his liking). Despite the shady history of the mountain, it was still a tourist attraction, mostly for historians and scholars but for the occasional _Wanderlust_ victim as well. It was also an awe-inspiring area, as most of Upper Bavaria was, a place of peace and quiet, shattered occasionally by tragedy that would be remembered, but not fawned over. Even the space freighter which crashed on the side of the mountain could only mar its surface for a time. Several months later, those who had lived here all their lives could look at the mountain and hardly notice the change to its face caused by the impact.  
  
It was a tragedy, but only one in a long line of them. Here, life went on.   
  
This particular family, long accustomed to sudden spontaneity (as most Bavarians were), were simply doing their normal routine. There was nothing suspect about them being up here, and little to endanger them. The occasional wolf would not disturb them, choosing flight over fight in the presence of humankind. Bears were almost nonexistent, and the deer, elk, and other forms of fauna would follow the wolf's lead rather than risk the displeasure of the bipedal lifeforms who walked these trails and forests like gods, dispensing treats with one hand, or death with the other. These days it was usually treats, as hunting was outlawed and had been for several decades. The animals, however, remembered in their bones the time when this place was the favored hunting grounds for the Swabian Dukes, and such things are best left as good practice.   
  
While the freighter crash was noticed, commented upon for a while, and then written off as a closed case, it too had become part of this place. So much so that it had almost slipped the minds of everyone here; almost.  
  
The husband, going a little gray in his age but still as fit as he had been in his younger days, had a nagging sensation tugging at him even as he strolled with his wife down the trail, the kids racing ahead of them. It was a familiar tugging, one he had not felt for almost a decade, and it was because of that lapse in time that he could not readily identify it. His conscious mind wrote it off as a lark, a bit of whimsy for no real, tangible reason, just an odd feeling in the back of his mind. His unconscious mind, not in charge of the situation, harkened his memories back to the War, the time he'd served as a Federal Forces Ranger, 32nd _Pioniere_ Company, defending Earth, and Germania, from the Zeon who had come to bring their iron rule to all humanity. He had survived the War with enough horrible memories to last ten lifetimes, and the last thing he wanted to do was dwell on those. He had the scars to remind him every day he saw them marring his form.  
  
But the nagging sensation would not abate. Even as they crossed from the woods into a sizeable clearing (a place where he'd first met his wife, so many exceedingly joyous and painfully mournful years ago) where the entirety of _Kehlsteinberge_ could be viewed when the weather was clear, it would not leave him be. Something was wrong, something big, and he frowned as he tried desperately to either ignore the whole thing or figure out the cause, whichever came first. He was here to spend time with his wife and three children, not dwell on a past only the fanatics would choose to dwell upon.  
  
_Fanatics like that fool Delaz, bringing his hell-borne Stardust to Earth and rending the face of Terra with his hatred._ The Federation had tried to cover that up, even to the extent of enforcing a media blackout, but the veterans knew. No amount of cover story or lies could close that wound from the ones who knew what it was to bleed for a cause.  
  
With the Titans here, though, the Zeon had never risen again, except in the service of the AEUG and for a different reason than revenge. As long as the Titans stood, there would be no more Stardusts. He was confident of that, so why was his mind trying to drive him insane? He pursed his lips and stared at the ground as he walked, his wife's hand in his own giving him scant comfort.   
  
It was on the ground before him. His mind focused to a clarity he had not needed to since the end of the War, and his body ceased its forward motion, jarring his wife to a stop as well, as he realized that he was standing on the tread marks of a heavy lift transport. In fact, as his eyes scanned the area around them, there were the tracks of multiple heavy load-bearing vehicles. Turning back around the way they came, ignoring his wife's question as to the sudden halt, he could see them winding their way into the woods they had departed, continuing deep into the forest.  
  
It would not have been such a large concern of these had been the tire marks from motorbikes or small recreational vehicles, for these areas were popular to camp in, but these could not be mistaken for anything else. He had seen these kinds of vehicles during the War, and while most had been converted for other functions, their purpose was essentially the same as the role they had filled back then: hauling big heavy cargoes, like armored vehicles, ammunition, artillery pieces, and mobile suit components.   
  
Tracks like these had no business in this place. He knew he had found a big piece to what was puzzling him, but there was more. He spun on a heel, following the treads back to the clearing, then broke out in a run, leaving his wife behind, sprinting ahead of his children, eyes seeing nothing but these marks before him, ears not hearing the calls of his family. The tracks ended several hundred meters into the clearing, and he gasped at what he found.  
  
Even with several weeks' worth of overgrowth, it was very apparent that there was a "footprint" in the topsoil. A depression several centimeters deep, at the end of the path carved by the tracks of all those vehicles, as though something extremely large and heavy had landed in this very spot and was then taken away. He could hear his family coming towards him, and he stretched his arm backwards towards them, fingers splayed out from each other as though he were signaling to his old Ranger company members to hold position, though he knew that his wife and children could not possibly understand the sign language.   
  
His eyes were riveted on the footprint in the earth, even as his head began to turn towards the east, drawn as if by an invisible strand towards the face of the mountain itself. His head reached the point where his eyes could no longer stare at the ground, and they instead shifted to the surface of _Kehlsteinberge_, and he blinked. There was a black patch on the mountain face, undeniably where the space freighter had crashed, in a perfect line from the footprint.  
  
The touch of his wife's hand on his shoulder snapped him back to reality, and he forced a smile on his lips despite the misgivings these pieces of evidence were eliciting in his imagination. The news had said that nothing had survived the crash, not even the cargo. If that were the case, then what the hell was he looking at here?   
  
He meant to have that question answered if he had any say in it. He had a phone number back at home he could call, the one in the desk drawer he thought he would never have to use. It would be a late solution, but better that than any of the alternatives he could think of. Impulsively, he pulled his wife into an embrace, almost out of desperation, and clung to her as though she were the only point of sanity in a sea of madness threatening to drown him in the waters of his own fear. He hoped, and he prayed, that this was just a misunderstanding, a piece of information he had not heard on the news, and it was just the old fears of a tired man who had wrapped himself in a cloak of intuition to survive the darkest time of his life. He hoped his intuition was leading him astray now.   
  
Deep inside, he knew it was a false hope.  
  
  



	6. Chapter 5

**MSG: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed  
  
Chapter 5  
  
Mannheim, Hessen, Central Europe  
August 23, 0087**  
  
"So you see," spoke the voice around the pistachios the teeth inside the mouth were masticating with some relish, "we're offering you quite the opportunity, considering that most people here and abroad would rather have seen you dead. You ought to be grateful."  
  
_You have no idea._ Dietrich von Mellenthin did not take his eyes from the other man's face, despite the repulsive display of poor manners. "Oh, rest assured that my gratitude is at your service, Warden Grissom."  
  
The Warden of Mannheim Military Penitentiary finished chewing and swallowed a gulp of coffee from the mug next to his hand before speaking again. "Now, there are some rules you'll have to follow, but they should be easy to remember for the likes of you. First, no touching the nice reporter lady. You will be chained for the duration of the live interview and at all times prior to and afterwards, and you will be guarded, so no funny business."  
  
"Understood," replied von Mellenthin, raising his hands from the tabletop slightly in order to rattle his cuffs, signaling that he did, indeed, understand. A Styrofoam cup was next to his hands, the coffee inside untouched. This whole chatting session was so wretched that he simply did not want to touch anything more than he absolutely had to. Yet another attempt to show who was in charge and who was not. Dietrich von Mellenthin understood the true meaning of power, and he knew who in this room had some and who did not.  
  
"You will answer each and every question simply and without rancor or obscenity, or we will conclude the broadcast with you being dragged away like a common convict. Then I can assure you, General, that you will spend a great deal of time in a dark and terrible place. And I will personally select the hole we dump you in for the maximum effect. Get it?"  
  
"_Ich verstehe_," was the reply.  
  
Grissom met the stare of the blue-green eyes with his own rather plain ones, unflinching. "If I had my way, this entire thing wouldn't even be happening. I don't care what kind of weird propaganda bit the higher-ups have concocted allowing for the first live broadcast interview of your esteemed eminence, von Mellenthin, but they speak and I am obliged to listen."  
  
"The price of responsibility in an officer, Warden Grissom."  
  
Grissom stared hard at the face of the Zeon general, but von Mellenthin betrayed no sign of disrespect or patronization. It had simply been a statement of fact. He frowned and then cleared his throat loudly.  
  
"That's all set for November, then. Just in time for the fall sweeps, which I'm sure you'll take great pleasure in knowing. You may even out-Nielsen the football game that week. Our business is concluded." Grissom waved the at the guards, who each took a step forward, a very apparent signal that this little jam session was quite over.  
  
Von Mellenthin did not rise from his seat, or move in any other fashion for that matter. Grissom furrowed his brow, confused. "What is it, von Mellenthin? You have a problem with your feet or something?"  
  
"Aside from the chains, of course not. I do, however, wish to tender a request from you."  
  
That statement put Grissom back in his seat promptly, and the guards stepped back again. "That's not like you, General. This has to be a good one."  
  
Von Mellenthin smiled in a friendly way. "My uniform. May I wear it for the interview?"  
  
Grissom's reply was a snort. "Hell, no."  
  
The expression on the Zeon's face was one of pained confusion, bordering on something that came close to anger. "Why not, if I may dare ask?"  
  
"Because I'm not going to allow you to parade around in a uniform of a dead cause, General. You'll wear your prison greens so that the viewers everywhere know that you're a convict and a murderer, locked away to be forgotten, not some status symbol for traitors and rebels."  
  
"I'll already be in chains. Having me in my uniform makes me no more free than me sitting in this room with you than in Gen-Pop."  
  
"Forget it."  
  
"Think about it, Warden Grissom; a Zeon general, in full uniform and regalia, in chains, on camera before the world, forced to reveal every dark secret some unarmed woman is asking him or suffer your wrath. Isn't the uniform of the evil Duchy of Zeon still a hated sight? Isn't the mere sight of it enough to trigger even the most pacifist of people's inner rage at the Zavis and what they did to Terra? The symbol of the strength of the Federation is heightened by the sight of me in chains, wearing the abhorred uniform of your old enemy, as is your own display of authority in that you can allow for such a spectacle and still be the one in charge. The value of such a production can't be calculated in long-term impact, both for the Federation and your own career." Von Mellenthin did not fail to note that the last statement hit home with the Warden. _Weakling, and stupid as well. I'll make you dance the dizzy dance until you fall down, and you'll never know I did it to you._  
  
Grissom ran a hand down his face, still staring at von Mellenthin, but remained silent. This did not prevent him from popping another pistachio into his mouth and chewing slowly.  
  
"It's hard, isn't it?" asked von Mellenthin, a hint of sympathy in his baritone, German-accented voice. "The waiting, the wondering, being here in this place instead of serving in the capacity for which you were trained. You feel as though the Federation you spent your life defending has exiled you here, and raised up the Titans in your place to take what was yours."  
  
Grissom nodded involuntarily, still chewing. Von Mellenthin could see the thoughts churning behind his eyes, and smiled. _Your eyes are floating, Warden_.  
  
"This interview is your best chance to show the world, the Federation, the Titans, and your superiors that they're wasting your talents here. Watching over the rabble of the past while the world moves forward is no place for a combat veteran, is it? They will see this and _know_ that you aren't some goonish bullyboy hired from a dock, but a soldier who _commands_. Admit that my request isn't outlandish, and grant it, and I will make certain this interview proceeds without a hitch, flaw, or unexpected event, and you will garner great accolades from it."  
  
Grissom swallowed, then exhaled, long and loud. "You swear it, on your parents' honor and your own as an officer, that this isn't some trick or any bullshit game you're playing."  
  
"I play the piano, not games, Warden Grissom. I swear it on my father's life that absolutely nothing untoward will happen to cause you any grief, humiliation, or heartburn for the duration of the interview."  
  
"All right," said Grissom after a long silence, "I'll have the guards take you to the prison wardrobe to be measured and have the uniform altered if needed. I have your word on this, and I'll hold you to it."  
  
"Consider me held. I promise you you'll get what you've deserved for a long time once I display to the world the kind of person you are." Von Mellenthin picked up the Styrofoam cup with his cuffed hands, and then touched it to Grissom's mug in a toast. "A uniform's just another coat to die in, anyway."  
  
**Augsburg, Bayern, Central Europe  
August 23, 0087**  
  
The phone rang just at the perfectly wrong time. At the moment of the first piercing beep from the little pink phone, form-molded into the shape of a naked woman with the receiver as her ample cleavage, Camael Balke was suspended on the next-to-last rung of a fifteen-foot ladder, hand outstretched to its fullest. The customer that had prompted his ascent to this dangerous level was paying attention to nothing but the row of boxes and their contents that Balke was attempting without success to grasp.  
  
"Ignore it," said Balke from above. "Is it this one?"  
  
"No, the one to the right," was the customer's reply, as he licked his lips in an anticipation that almost made Balke wince.  
  
"Okay, is it this one then?" Balke moved his hand one box to the right, forcing him to lean over even further. The ladder wobbled underneath him, but it managed to remain upright and not topple to the floor, carrying its reluctant passenger with it.  
  
"No, the purple one is the one I want," was the customer's response to the latest query.  
  
Balke was no longer certain how long he had been up here, but it seemed an eternity. Then again, for him everything seemed like an eternity these days. He had imagined some insane things in his day, but being suspended from a too-short ladder while reaching for a specific sex toy was not one of them. He could imagine what this had to look like from the outside, but thankfully there was only the single customer here at the moment.  
  
He was the general proprietor for X-Dream, a subsidiary sex shop underneath the larger Erotex _GmbH_ chain line of erotic and sensual paraphernalia suppliers. It was the last thing he'd ever thought he would be doing, but this life had been full of surprises for him. In fact, it was becoming quite hard to surprise him anymore. He admitted to himself that he would probably not even blink if a dozen people were below, all of them taking pictures of him groping for this battery-operated vaginal-anal dildo, also known as 'the purple one', for the purpose of printing them on the front page of the _Augsbuerger Zeitung_ newspaper's morning edition.  
  
The phone continued to beep its insistence at attention at him, and Balke continued to ignore it. "Which direction from my hand is 'the purple one'?"  
  
"Still to the right. Just one over."  
  
_Why didn't you mention that before?_ Balke sighed, then reached with the entirety of his form, leaving one foot on the ladder while the other swung into the air to give him a few more inches of grasping range.  
  
As his hand snagged the target box, three things happened simultaneously: the phone gave forth its call once again, the customer smiled in near-ecstasy (probably the anticipation of what would happen once he got 'the purple one' home to his new wife, as Balke had noticed the brand new wedding band on the customer's left hand), and the ladder decided that standing was too much effort.  
  
Balke felt the ladder shift and begin its slide towards the ground in gravity's embrace. He closed his eyes as the world began to slide from underneath him.  
  
"Oh, no," was the only thing he said, as his free hand reflexively took hold of the shelves nearest to it, the ladder falling into space and hitting the floor with a clatter.  
  
The customer gawked, not hearing the phone or remembering the purchase he wanted to make. Now, he was riveted on Balke hanging almost three meters off the floor by one hand, and the bare foothold he had on one of the lower shelves, his boot toe knocking over boxes of condoms and tubes of varying fluids, mostly lubricants and spermicides. After scrabbling amongst the jetsam on the shelf, Balke's boot planted itself firmly on the shelf, and his balance regained itself.  
  
Letting out a sigh of relief, Balke took this opportunity to look at the box in his right hand. Sure enough, it was 'the purple one'. Managing a smile, he craned his neck until he could see his customer below him. "This one, right?"  
  
The customer nodded, mouth still hanging open. Balke, relieved, began to puzzle out how to get down without killing himself. He had just about decided to jump the remaining distance down when several popping sounds issued from the walls.  
  
_Sounds like the mooring bolts just pulled loose_, was his first thought. Then he realized he was right.  
  
With a creak and a rush, the entire shelving unit, and Balke, toppled in the direction of the most weight, which happened to be the store-ward side, guaranteeing Balke would land first.

  
The phone rang again just before he landed on the prone ladder, wrenching almost every rib on his left side out of place. Against his will, he cried out from the pain, just before the contents of the shelves, and then the shelves themselves, slammed on top of him, covering him with sex devices, supplies, toys, magazines, guides, erotica books, and other various assortments of lovemaking enhancement tools of the trade in which he worked.  
  
After the thunderous crash of the landing shelves, there was a moment of silence in the store. Even the customer barely breathed. Then the phone rang, and the peace was shattered again.  
  
"_AArRRrrGhhHhh!!!_" was Balke's exclamation to the universe once he'd managed to inhale enough air to spit the condom he'd caught in his mouth out from between his jaws. Pain wracked him, and he decided not to move until he took stock in the damage.  
  
"Are-are you okay, sir?" asked the customer hesitantly. He had not been touched by the catastrophe in any way, except as a witness.  
  
"Can you see my right hand?" hissed Balke from beneath the pile, his voice obviously informing the customer that he was most certainly not 'okay'.  
  
"Yes." Balke's hand was the only visible portion of him, with half his right arm sticking up from the pile between two of the shelves.  
  
"Is the 'purple one' in it?"  
  
"Yes." Sure enough, the prized device was still in his grip. The phone rang yet again, punctuating the affirmative.  
  
"Take it from my hand, and then pick up the phone and place the receiver in my open palm. It's cordless, so it will reach. The cost of the 'purple one' is 20 credits. Leave it on the register, turn my window sign to 'Closed', and leave this place." _Temper, temper_.  
  
"You got it, mister," said the customer as he did as was requested of him. He even left the money on the register.  
  
"Thanks. Enjoy your purchase and come again," spoke Balke's agonized voice from the heap of merchandise and heavy shelves. His fingers closed over the telephone receiver, middle and ring fingers between the 'breasts', and he gingerly lowered it down towards where he presumed his head was.  
  
The customer had not failed to notice the tattoo on Balke's right palm. "Nice tattoo, man," he commented as he left.  
  
Balke waved his hand, clutching the receiver, as a signal of farewell. When the bells on the door jingled the departure of his customer, he was finally satisfied that the ultimate cause for his injury had departed his immediate zone of influence.

  
"X-Dream Love Supplies, pleasure at prices you can afford," he began the usual required answering spiel, trying to keep the pain out of his voice.  
  
The voice on the other end was not one he recognized. "Is—?" began the speaker on the other end, obviously confused, "I-I'm sorry, I must have a wrong number. I'm looking for Camael Balke."  
  
"This is Camael Balke speaking. How may I help you?"  
  
The voice on the other end sounded almost relieved. "Forgive me, Captain Balke, I was—"  
  
Balke sat upright, spilling merchandise from off of himself, as well as managing to push the shelves over to where he could conceivably escape them. "Who in hell is this?"  
  
"I got your number from—"  
  
"WHO ARE YOU?" Had anyone been there to see it, Balke's face wore the picture-perfect shifting mixture of anger and shame.  
  
"I-I'm sorry, my name is Peter Dorff. I was a member of the 32nd _Pioniere_ during the War—"  
  
"I don't know you! Why are you calling me 'Captain'?"  
  
The voice on the other end was almost pleading. "Will you please just hear me out? I got your number from a man, a man who knew you, back during the War. His name was Friedrich Heine, and he—"  
  
_Freddie? He gave this man my number?_ Balke felt a pang of loss. "That explains much. He was in the 32nd _Pioniere_. He died just before the War ended, helping drive the Zeon from Europe in Operation Odessa."  
  
"Yes," spoke the voice, sounding relieved.  
  
_Don't be relieved yet, I can still hang up this phone._ "He was a good man, and a good friend. He died wastefully, as did so many others in the War. Now, why have you called me? Don't you know who I am?"  
  
"Who you are is why I've called you, sir. I need your help, and Friedrich told me that you were the one to call when someone needed help."

  
"Help with what? I sell pornography, not part-time labor-filling."  
  
"'In matters pertaining to a Crusade', Captain Balke. That's what Friedrich told me to say if you asked that."  
  
There was a long silence as those words sank into Balke's mind, an almost euphoric rush that felt like aloe on a sunburn.   
  
"Where are you?" was Balke's response when he could speak again, dragging himself to his feet slowly and painfully, but his words and thoughts were clear and focused on a singular question:  _Is this the moment I've been waiting for?_  
  
"I live in Ligeretalm, in Obersalzburg. Can we meet?"  
  
"I'm in Augsburg, so a suitable halfway point would be—"  
  
"Forgive me for insisting, but I think you need to come see me. I can meet you in Bad Reichenhall, but there is something here I think you should see. It's what prompted me to call your number."  
  
Balke thought for a moment, then replied, "I will meet you in Bad Reichenhall in three days. This had best be good, _Herr_ Dorff. If you knew Freddie, then you know that I don't like red herrings."  
  
"I fear you will not be disappointed, Captain Balke."

  
**Duisberg, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe  
August 25, 0087**  
  
It was obvious that this hotel room had been lived in for a very long time by a single person. There were the telltale signs all over the place; personal effects placed in a single location and never moved, the lack of intrusion by cleaners and hotel staff, and the apparent comfort of the individual inside the environment. This pattern fit what was happening to Commander Karl Weissdrake to a tee, and he knew it.  
  
_God cursed union workers and their stinking labor contracts! If this were Zeon during the War, these modifications would have taken seven weeks instead of seven months!_ he raged in his head, a gloved hand rubbing across his nearly-hairless scalp. Despite whatever Reinhardt von Seydlitz was thinking, the waiting was making him equally stir-crazy, if not more so. Of course, he was in the position of being here to view the headway, unlike the rest of the Division. Two of the ships were finished and ready. The third was a work-in-progress.  
  
And as if he did not have enough to worry about, there were the two others sitting in his room. Vladimir Margul's bullyboys, Lacerta and Reiter, looking at him with all the love of jackals to a wounded impala. Weissdrake kept his gaze riveted on the digital photographs of Lammersdorf the two had delivered. He knew that was a pretense, though. They were actually sent to spy on him, a pleasant reminder from von Seydlitz that everything was resting on his shoulders.  
  
Karl Weissdrake was not insulted by this in the slightest. He had been a part of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ Division back when it was more like just a slightly overstrength brigade, commanded by a fresh-faced Colonel Dietrich von Mellenthin, and he'd known both he and then-Captain von Seydlitz from even before the War. Von Mellenthin had been an addict for information since forever, and von Seydlitz had picked up the habit from him. It was only natural now that their august leader was itching for a play-by-play in this whole affair.  
  
It was a matter of trust, and Wesisdrake knew that deep within, von Seydlitz did not even trust himself, much less another person. He did not have anything that could be called faith, just a will to make certain that something as ertswhile and unreliable as faith was not a necessity to be counted upon.  
  
"These are the best you two could do after seven days?" he asked the two 2nd 'Grimravers'.  
  
Sergeant Paul Lacerta's grin looked like a sneer, making his already-evil face appear that much more sinister. "Lammersdorf's a backwater, Commander. You try spending a week out with the trees and bugs and shit and see how interested you are in getting up close to a Feddie base."  
  
"I would, Sergeant," replied Weissdrake, shifting his eyes towards the rat-faced enlisted man, "because I knew I'd be going there. Your ineptitude puts me and my men at jeopardy. I'm of a mind to send you back."  
  
"Colonel von Seydlitz said to come straight back to Berchtesgaden after visiting you," protested Private Derek Reiter, who would have looked like the poster child for Aryan Nation except for the long scar running down the left side of his face. Between he and Lacerta, it was no wonder the 2nd 'Grimravers' were hellions. They looked the part.  
  
"Colonel von Seydlitz isn't here, and he isn't going to Lammersdorf. I am, on both counts. Did you at least get a troop estimate of the base?"  
  
Lacerta's sneer deepened. "No need to get nasty, sir. We do know how to do this job. There's no more than a squad on duty at the same time, and the shift indicate it's just a platoon of standard groundpounders. No mobile suits or tanks. Just them. Lefotver Feddie regulars, none of them Titans pricks. Ought to be a snap of the fingers for you and your boys, Commander."  
  
"Is that supposed to be a joke, Sergeant?" Weissdrake's left hand was missing two fingers under its glove. The lack of digits was the least testimony of the Battle of Poitiers that he carried on his person.  
  
Karl Weissdrake was almost completely bald, because almost half his skull was wrapped in burn scars. His left ear was a melted ruin, as was most of the structure on his face. At Poitiers, his _Zaku_ had taken a hit and fallen too close to an ammunition carrier before it too had been struck, immolating the suit and the pilot before he was able to escape the confines, the heat, and the stench, and make pain his only concern. After Poitiers, nothing had seemed difficult for him, except recovery. When the 555th 'Triple-Nickel' had taken the last _Gau_ out of Metz before the encirclement, he'd been swathed in bandages on over half his body surface. Despite being in an agony he could still recall so many years later, he'd gotten himself, the Foxe twins, and their _Zakus_ to Freiberg, snagged the spoils of Zurich, and made their way across country to Obersalzburg without failure. That he could see from his left eye was miracle enough, but if Lacerta and Reiter thought their visages were terror incarnate, their brand of horror only offered the mewling of babes compared to the throat-wrenching screams that Karl Weissdrake bore as his own face.  
  
It had been so many years this way now, he had even gotten used to children crying in fear when he walked past.  
  
For a moment, Lacerta looked confused. Then, something resembling pity crossed over his face, and he glanced away from Weissdrake's face. "No, sir."  
  
Weissdrake stared a little longer, then turned back to the photographs. "Inform Colonel von Seydlitz upon your return that the final vessel's refit will be complete by mid-October, three weeks before the original estimate."  
  
Reiter's ears perked up. "Really? Is that true, sir?"  
  
"Yes, Private. I'm going to go motivate them a little more, if I can. Mid-October, and no longer than that. Leiger's people are too concerned with contracts and nitpickery. I will make them more concerned with _me_. Dismissed, and thank you for your work."  
  
The two Zeon enlisted troopers at least had the courtesy to salute the cripple before filing out his door, he noted. Ten minutes and a phone call later, he, too left the building.  
  
_Lammersdorf, surrounded by forest, no room for errors. If anyone can do it, the 555th can. We have to._  
  
**Heidelberg, Baden-Wuerttemberg, Central Europe  
August 26, 0087**  
  
_This has GOT to be the stupidest thing I've ever been sent to do,_ rambled the mind of Antares de la Somme. He was sitting perched on the viewing area of the ski-lift resort-waystation on the summit of _Koenigstuhl_ mountain, facing down into the city itself, nestled in the Rhein-Neckar valley. He'd been plinking credit coins into the tourist binoculars, focused on a single location. A set of high-powered televisual zoom lens attached to a video recorder was at his side. He was alone, as this place only saw real business during the winter months, and there were better makeout places than this in Heidelberg below.  
  
If he'd had the time, he would have been in the city, probably having a beer, a pretzel, and a good time, instead of being up here with the birds, the deer, the wolves, the bugs, and the occasional cross-country running high school student jogging past him while training. _Better them than me_, he mused, _you couldn't PAY this boy enough to get him to run up this thing, especially those 559 concrete steps at the beginning._  
  
He had been up here for hours, and his legs were still hurting. This had not been the most fun of nature hikes. To make matters even more enjoyable, something he'd been deriving from alternating the binocular lens from the absolutely wonderful view of _Schloss_ Heidelberg and the topless sunbathers on the banks of the Neckar river below. He was a professional lech enough to make certain the camera stayed on the objective.  
  
_Heh! The 'objective'. It's a freakin' playground in some elementary school. What the hell is Reinhardt smoking? This can't have a damn thing to do with Nemesis, not in a million years. Shoulda argued harder to make Margul do this crappy job. God, please tell me this is just Reinhardt being spiteful, hateful, and vindictive, so that when I get back I can punish him severely in Your name and not catch naughty points for it._  
  
Straightening from the eyeport of the binoculars, he stretched backwards, feeling vertebrae pop back in place. "THIS _SUUUUCKS!!!!_" he yelled out, hearing his shout echo through the valley so that it felt like the entire city must have heard him. The hill formations here were so suited to phonetics it was scary, and you could literally call out with the voice of God for miles around if you wanted to. No one would hear you, of course, unless they happened to be away from the white noise of Heidelberg, but it was still fun. Or, more fun than watching a bunch of kids at recess for hours at a time.  
  
_God, why am I DOING this?_ He had argued until he was threatening to hold his breath to not be sent away from Berchtesgaden. Unlike everyone else, de la Somme knew that something was not right with von Seydlitz. He was snappish, irritable, and generally unpleasant to be around. Most everyone else would call that normal, or at worst a reaction to the amount of delays Nemesis was breeding like chinchilla herders on a hot market demand, but de la Somme was not 'most everyone else'. He'd grown up with von Seydlitz, and while the mask was good enough to fool almost anyone on Terra, it was not sufficient to ward off someone like de la Somme.   
  
De la Somme was afraid that his older foster brother was going to do something stupid while he was away, and no one would realize that he was a wreck and needed to be put back together. Von Mellenthin would have known before the fact, and defused it as he had always done. Even Weissdrake might have picked up on it after a little time. But they weren't in Berchtesgaden, and now neither was de la Somme.  
  
_What do you expect, though? The man's plan is dependant on sitting on his ass waiting for some tubs to be delivered, and he gets to spend that time mulling over the death of his foster father and the fact that his foster mother is in a sanitarium and isn't expected to live much longer_, spoke a voice in de la Somme's head. He concurred with it, of course. Von Seydlitz was not a man to openly grieve, and de la Somme only remembered twice he'd ever seen the usually-stalwart Colonel show any sign of anguish in his entire life. He was entitled to his privacy in such matters, and de la Somme was reasonably confident that von Seydlitz's grief would be a long time dying out.  
  
It had not become bad prior to his departure, and for that de la Somme was grateful. He glanced back into the binoculars and noticed that the current (and supposedly last) class of kiddies was lining up and going back into the school building. _Playtime over, back to school they go._ Not peeling his eyes from the binoculars and the playground, he reached behind him and snagged his Coke, not even fumbling haphazardly, and drew the straw towards his lips. However, he did manage to misjudge the angle of the cup, and bumped the side of the binoculars several centimeters off target.   
  
"Frell," he cursed, using a word whose origins had been lost to time. He would have to recorrect the positioning. At least the camera was stable and on target. Annoyed, he took a long drag from the cup as a means of personal revenge, then arced it into the trash can several meters away.  
  
He put his eyes back to the binoculars to judge where he was looking now from where he was supposed to be, and stared in fascination.  
  
There was a group of kids coming out of the doors of Hoelderin _Gymnasium_. NOT high school kids, either, but children ages ten or younger.  
  
"Maybe it's a tour or something," he muttered to himself. No other explanation was rational enough to warrant eight elementary students walking out of a secondary education facility, lined up and following their teacher.  
  
_Something's fucked up here_, said his brain to what little rationality he possessed. _Proper fucked, at that_.  
  
The kids and their guardian adult made a beeline straight for the elementary school de la Somme had been watching, as he followed them with the binoculars. He was riveted by this, and had no idea why, just that it was imperative that he not lose sight of these kids. Before they'd crossed the second block, he had the camera trained on them, too, using his perception to track the camera at the same rate he used the binoculars to keep them in view.  
  
Antares de la Somme was knowledgeable enough in the psychology of children (mostly because it was very much like his own, and de la Somme knew all about himself) to know that elementary children did NOT walk across busy streets and intersections, even accompanied by an adult, without holding hands. These children did not. In fact, they were moving in almost perfect formation, single file, in step. On top of that, they didn't seem nearly as curious at their surroundings kids of that age were supposed to be. In addition to all of that, it had become apparent that these kids varied in age from about seven years old to as young as four or five, and yet appeared to be in the same class. No, this was NOT normal at all.  
  
With the playground vacated by the other children, it was completely unrestricted for the use of these eight. Once inside the confines of the fence, things seemed to go become a reasonable facsimile of 'normal', with the teacher watching over her wards as they laughed, played, tussled, and explored as any other group of kids would. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary with that. De la Somme was focusing in on one of the older ones, one who seemed to be content with idly twirling a long red ribbon on a stick while gazing at something at his feet, when the binoculars went black.  
  
He snarled at the device. "Greedy bastard, are we? Fine, glut yourself on _this_, Root of all Evil!" He shoved about twelve credits' worth of change into the money-hungry viewing apparatus and peered into it again.  
  
Only to discover that his target was staring straight back at _him_.  
  
Startled, de la Somme reared back from the binoculars, blinking, a look of incredulous wonder on his face. Slowly, almost cautiously, he leaned forward and placed his eyes to the instrument again. He was not imagining things. The boy was looking right at him, from a distance of several kilometers. It was not possible, but there it was.  
  
He studied the features for a moment. About seven, maybe 3 feet even. Sturdy-looking, with honey-blond hair and the BIGGEST green eyes he'd ever seen on a human face. It was almost as though he were looking at something MADE as opposed to born. Normal people did not possess features like that, though children tended to be more pleasant-looking than their adult counterparts. But this was beyond mere childlike beauty. This was something fashioned by Heaven, or at least the closest thing to it.  
  
De la Somme smiled. The boy smiled back. The ace pilot tilted his head to the left in query. The boy reflected the movement by tilting his own head to the right, red ribbon trailing on the ground. De la Somme's smile grew even wider, and so did the boy's.  
  
"God, You can damn me any time now. I do believe there isn't anything left You can show me," he murmured, unable to take his eyes off the boy for more than an instant, long enough to know that none of the other children nor the teacher had detected his presence. Just this one.  
  
The child mouthed something, and de la Somme heard it in his head as clearly as if he'd been standing there beside him. "_Who are you?_"  
  
"Antares," he replied out loud, matter-of-factly. "Who are YOU?"  
  
Rather than answer, the child began twirling the ribbon, extending it with each whirling motion to its full two-meter length. The red cloth whisked through the air, making a tunnel of itself, then a zig-zag, then several figure-eight forms. Then, with a flick of the wrist, the ribbon snapped itself into a perfect cursive form, for just long enough to make a word with its length, before gravity drew it back to the earth.  
  
In that single moment, written in red across his vision, de la Somme read the name 'Erik', only missing the dot on the 'i'.  
  
De la Somme laughed, his amazement becoming something humorous. "Nice to meet ya, Erik. What'cha doing?"  
  
"_School_," was the mental reply.  
  
"The _Gymnasium_? You go to school _there_?" he felt stupid even asking it. If these children were all like Erik, there was no way they could be kept in a normal elementary school.  
  
The child's laugh rang in his head like the twinkling of wind chimes. "_No, THERE_." And the boy pointed towards the east.  
  
De la Somme followed the finger with the binoculars, but did not see another school in the vicinity of the east. He turned back, relieved that this child's attention span seemed. . .eternal. "Where? I can't find it."  
  
"_The green one_," was the return.  
  
"Well, why didn't you say so before?" laughed de la Somme in response, sticking out his tongue.  
  
The child laughed again, and it brought tears of absolute wonder to de la Somme's eyes. He had to wipe them repeatedly to keep his vision clear, and by that point it appeared that their teacher was beginning to round them up to take them from the school grounds and back to wherever is was they came from.  
  
Erik waved as he turned away, his face a mask of almost angelic happiness. De la Somme felt a wrench in his heart at the sight, and he had to restrain himself from reaching out with his hand to take hold of the boy. Instead, he just waved goodbye, though it was more painful than anything he had ever known since he was four.  
  
Then he was gone, and with a monumental effort, he pulled himself away from the binoculars. He wiped more tears from his face with a shirtsleeve, then stood up. "Son of a _bitch_! What WAS that?? What the fuck have I just seen here?"  
  
The 'green one' was the key to the answer. He shut off the camera and started packing up. He had to go into the city after all. He had to know.  
  
Three hours later, he knew.  
  
"God, remind me when I get back to ask Reinhardt just how in the hell he even knew about this. . ."  
  
Training the camera across the building, he paused on the sign in front of the 'green one'.  
  
It read _RZPD Deutsches Ressourcenzentrum fuer Genomforschung GmbH_; the RZPD German Resource Center for Genetic Study, Inc.  
  
  



	7. Chapter 6

**MSG: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed  
  
Chapter 6  
  
_Kehlsteinberge_, Bayern, Central Europe  
August 29, 0087**  
  
Camael Balke squinted his dust-brown eyes at the black smear on the side of the mountain's face. Then he looked down at his feet, measuring by sight that he was, indeed, standing in the center of a very large depression in the earth, again. Then he looked up again, verifying for the fifth time that his eyes were not playing tricks on him. After that, he twisted until he faced the tire tracks that led away from the region of the depression and into the forest, following what was left of them with his eyes.  
  
_Dorff was right. Something happened here, and it may have been exactly what his instincts were telling him._  
  
He'd been up here for almost a week now, trying to piece together what had happened. He had pored over every piece of information he could gather on the accident, and come to the conclusion that with the exception of what he was standing in and the heavy-lift vehicle tracks leading away from it, it was an accident. Balke, having once been a very reputable intelligence officer a thousand years ago or so, deduced otherwise.   
  
_It could be something else, though. Smugglers, perhaps, though I can't imagine why they'd go through the trouble of all this when they could have just as easily paid off Gibraltar Starport's customs people. That it's smugglers running guns or some kind of zero-G designer drug makes more sense to Occam's Razor than some kind of pro-Zeon resistance element, Dorff's instincts notwithstanding._  
  
He sighed as he ran a hand through his hair, eyes never leaving the fading tracks in the earth. It was times like this that he wished he were someone different entirely. The long-dead Captain Camael Balke was meant for better things than what the wretched man he had become since the War was now. This divot in the Earth's surface was a lot of nothing for a second chance at a future to ride on. If the freighter had been running drugs or some such contraband, it would not even raise the eyebrows of the Federation; which meant that no one, not even that simpering windbag Edgrove, would be obliged to listen to a washed-up intelligence officer from a disgraced unit, doomed to live out his days peddling smut to the depraved, the lonely, the adventurous, and the forsaken. The Camael Balke that stood here in Upper Bavaria had other plans than to remain dead for much longer.  
  
_Listen to me. I'm almost praying it's the Zeon again, just so I can feed off them to climb the ladder again. How far have I fallen?_  
  
The trees were beginning to turn, and that meant winter was coming. In just a month or so, snow would obliterate the remains of the tracks, the depression, and the black stain of the bulk freighter's impact. If anything did come out of this, whoever was responsible was being extraordinarily patient. That was the problem. After seeing this place for the second time, Balke had risked a phone call to an old friend who was still part of the Federal Forces in Europe. It had not gone nearly as well as hoped.  
  
"_Look, I would love to help you, Camael, if only because you taught me everything I know about Intel, but I can't turn over official Federation records to a civilian. You KNOW that."  
  
"If I taught you everything you know, you must have slept through the lesson on "Using All Available Sources to See the Big Picture". I'm not asking for the technical schematics to a fucking _Hizack_, Braxton. I just want to know how deep you guys checked that bulk freighter crash—"  
  
"I heard you the first time! Search and Rescue came back and—"  
  
"You used THOSE slackers to run your numbers??"  
  
"For God's sake, will you please just shut the hell up? I'm trying to tell you what you want to know, and you're the one doing the talking! I'm not even supposed to acknowledge that you exist anymore, much less give you information, so do me the favor of keeping your stupid trap shut! I DO happen to outrank you now, even if you WERE active duty again, and you are NOT by far on active fucking duty, so zip the lip and use your ears for once! Edgrove wanted to send a full detail out there, but was overruled by that Titans cocksucker Sajer, so he pulled a reg and sent what he could. When SAR got there, there wasn't enough left of that freighter to sprinkle on a pizza. NOTHING could have survived the crash."  
  
"Something did survive, Brak. Thank the Titans for me when whatever it is bubbles to the surface of the shithole they've turned the Federation into."  
  
"You have any proof of that, Camael?"  
  
"NO, Braxton, I don't have any proof! That's what I'm trying to find! I didn't call you for the flowery conversation, and if you'd stop making excuses for that dickless wonder Edgrove, maybe we could put our brains together and figure out why there's a dent in the ground from something that came off that damn ship!"  
  
"You haven't changed a bit, have you? You're still the obsessed fanatic you were when they kicked you out! If you'd listen to reason and reality for a change, you'd come to find out that the Zeon are DONE! They fought their war and LOST! There's no conspiracy, no resistance, just the AEUG, the Titans, and the Federation, and despite Jaburo, the Titans run this show! Edgrove does his damnedest to keep them off our case, so why don't you cut the man a little slack? He WAS at Metz, remember?"  
  
"And we were at Bayreuth, and Paris, and a million other places that he WASN'T! He got to see the bastards while they were on the ropes; WE saw them at their best! You have GOT to send some people to check Obersalzburg and Upper Bavaria NOW, before it's too late! Winter's coming, Brak, and so's Axis—"  
  
"I'm hanging up, Camael. For your own sake, check into a nuthouse or get married or something. I put those demons behind me a long time ago, like I did the War. Von Mellenthin's in his cage, and all's right with the world. Goodbye."  
  
So much for cooperative friendships,_ he thought angrily. He couldn't believe someone who had seen what the Zeon were capable of firsthand would so casually not give a damn, no matter how remote the possibility. The fact that there was even a remote chance should have been enough to stir up a few hornets at least. Anyone with half a brain knew that Axis was on its way back to the Earth Sphere, bringing God knew what with them and probably another war on top of THAT. _Starting to make me wish the Kalaba didn't turn me down . . ._  
  
He walked alongside the tracks and away from the landing site, still musing to himself. There was another tack he could try, but it would require him to do something he did not want to do. He absently rubbed the tattoo on the palm of his right hand as he walked, out of anxiety as much as anything else.  
He had a petition to fill out, and hope that the approval arrived in time, if at all.  
  
**Berchtesgaden, Bayern, Central Europe  
August 30, 0087**  
  
The darkness was almost enough to soothe, but not quite. The mines were utterly silent, but that just made it easier to hear the memories. Reinhardt von Seydlitz sat alone in the office, instead of at home where he should have been. Even the tactical center was empty now, devoid of other lifeforms. No stimulus, just silence, and von Seydlitz. The violin sat in its open case beside him, but even it could not reach him now, and he found no comfort in its notes tonight. After pondering what the problem was for over an hour, he had come to the conclusion that he was suffering from a condition known as the "heebie-jeebies". Rather than seek an external cure for the condition, he opted to hunt for an internal one.  
  
It was moments like these that he could believe that if one listened hard enough, one could hear their very genes speak to them. The hereditary memories buried amidst the chromosomes that comprised a being finally able to allow their voices to be heard before the physical memory of the present. It was fashion given form, a vindication of everything he had been brought up to know was right with the way things really were. It was the foundation, the very reason for his existence, along with the reason for the existence of the _Ordnung_ itself.  
  
Contemplation was another effect of the lack of outside stimulus. Nemesis was so close now, the grandest campaign ever attempted by so few. Even Delaz's Stardust would pale in comparison to what Nemesis would achieve once it was completed. A final chance at greater glory, serving a purpose that he supposed he had been born for.  
  
He pondered blood again. His own, like so many others, he could trace back further than the 19th Century, Old Calendar reckoning; a product of a hundred generations of soldiers, warfare, and destruction. He could almost hear the voice of his famous ancestor, Friedrich Wilhelm von Seydlitz, Hero of Rossbach and Captain of the Rochow Cuirassiers, who fought for Frederick the Great in 1758. He almost heard Walter von Seydlitz-Kurzbach's voice, a Major General of Artillery and commander of the 51st Corps under von Paulus's Sixth Army at Stalingrad in 1943. He almost heard another Friedrich Wilhelm von Seydlitz, Captain of the 4th Co., 2nd Panzer Battalion, in 2008, whose Leopard II tank smote the command tank of the last invaders of Germania before being destroyed itself (but not until after he had progenated, a fact for which his long-time successor was most appreciative), driving them from German soil until the coming of the Zeon. So much was in blood, and there were many more examples than those, but so few ever realized how much everything relied on genes. But he knew.  
  
De la Somme was on his way back from the little errand von Seydlitz had dispatched him on. He knew his foster brother would succeed where others would miss it entirely. That was one of the reasons why he had been sent instead of someone else. Von Seydlitz knew that whatever long-forgotten heritage de la Somme had flowing through his veins, it was something truly extraordinary. He also knew that whatever it was would be sufficient to reveal what von Seydlitz had suspected was being done here, far from the influence of space, or anything else for that matter. This was the most logical location for it. The surest way to keep a secret was to convince the world that they already knew the answer, and the world was convinced that eugenics was something they only did at the Flanagan Institute, creating the artificial NewTypes employed by the Titans to rid the universe of those who would disturb the peace of space.  
  
_What folly! As if the Flanagan Institute were the originator of genetic manipulation._  
  
That science was as old as Time itself, and there were others who knew the secrets of the double helix as well, if not better, than they. There were others who were counting on it, in fact.  
  
Another reason he had sent de la Somme was to give the simulator a break. Every single man in this outfit was now fully trained and tested on their mobile suits, and if he was any judge of skill, they were far better now than they were even during the War. He knew part of that was due to a new maturity, one they had not possessed when they had all been idealistic and young. Age can change an outlook the way the tides changed the surface of a shore.   
  
He also knew another part was the superiority of the machines themselves. Even the lowest jump up the technology ladder, the MS-06Fz _Zaku II Kai_ belonging to Anton Dalyev, was leaps and bounds ahead of even the Terra-rigged _Zaku II J_ some had been lucky enough to get before the end of Lorelei. Others, like the tripartite MS-18E _Kaempfers_ that Margul and his goons now possessed, were terrors in their own right, despite their (rather trying) field longevity flaws. The various _Gelgoog_-types, however, were truly technological brilliance given form. Von Seydlitz often wondered how the War would have gone if the _Dom_-types were the ones slated for ground combat, and the _Gelgoogs_ were the premier Zeon space suit at the beginning.  
  
Maturity (or lack thereof) notwithstanding, de la Somme, even in the custom _Gouf_ he had fallen in love with, had begun to outstrip everyone, including the simulator program itself. The machine simply could not keep up with his reaction speed, and if truth were told, it was becoming frightening to even watch from the outside. It was an unexplainable phenomenon, that someone could possibly be that fast and not have their own mech simply fall apart from the stress, and Antares was showing no signs of burning out anytime soon. He had sent de la Somme to Heidelberg to give the computers, not to mention everyone else, some time away from him.  
  
Which led to the third reason for de la Somme's departure: Vladimir Margul. Their hatred for each other, something that had been a facet of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ since the Dornbirn blitz, had almost simmered over the pot one too many times. Margul was simply not able to cope with the smaller man's ability to get under his skin, and became violent. At the very least, they had kept their fighting as far away from von Seydlitz as they could manage, but if they thought that taking it outside would shield their activities from his gaze, then they were both sorely mistaken.  
  
Nevertheless, it had become a threat to discipline, and von Seydlitz would not tolerate such in his command, any more than he would tolerate it in himself. He knew the reason behind their hate for each other, and also knew that de la Somme would never forgive or forget it, but they were going to cooperate for Nemesis, or von Seydlitz would bury them both in this mine along with everything else for jeopardizing this operation. They could settle their differences once the mission was complete. In fact, since they had decided to bring their own people into the fray along with them, they could ALL settle it after the mission was over.   
  
_If they all survived, of course._  
  
Lacerta and Reiter's visit to Weissdrake in Duisberg had gone exactly as expected. There was nothing Karl feared more than the possibility of being left behind because of his condition. Von Seydlitz was not proud of manipulating someone who he'd known since before the War, especially using wounds earned during one of the hardest fights the 10th had faced, but it was necessary. The wait was becoming intolerable now, and everyone was feeling it. _Especially me._  
  
Weissdrake had called two nights later to inform him that his latest batch of "motivations" had been successful, and that the third ship would be complete by October 14th, guaranteed. This meant that Nemesis officially "began" on October 31st, when the ships arrived in Regensburg. That was a deadline von Seydlitz had no intention of missing.  
  
Everything else was in place. Roberts claimed the grid at the Teutobergerwald was complete and operational, but there had been no way to test McKenna's theory without a certain necessary component to the experiment that would have drawn too much attention to use. Von Seydlitz could tell from the Marine's voice that he had no doubts about the ability of this experiment, but in his position von Seydlitz had enough doubts for the both of them.  
  
He stood and walked out of the office, shutting and locking the door behind him. In the darkness, he made his way down into the sublevel, where Nemesis lurked, waiting for its curtain call and the show to begin. The burden of it all never felt heavier to von Seydlitz. This was never supposed to have happened. None could doubt that as a tactician he had few equals, even at the height of the War, but Nemesis was built around grand strategy, and that field of endeavor was von Mellenthin's stock in trade. Von Seydlitz wondered how his older foster brother was able to cope with the randomness of it all, the hoping that every piece fell into place at the right time and in the right pattern to achieve that one goal. This higher planning in advance of circumstances only really served to give him a headache, and he had known since the beginning that he was unsuited for strategic initiative combat. He preferred to react as circumstances revealed themselves, not try to make the circumstances fit the action. To him, it was all madness, but Dietrich could make a big picture out of just a few little pieces, and then make that picture fit a frame that anyone else would say was too large.  
  
_Eight years now I have done your job, _Generalmajor_. And my shoulders are not so broad as your own. How did you manage to move underneath the weight of it all?_  
  
He made his way down past the tactical center, deeper into the sublevel, to where the Giants stood, feeling every single one of his twenty-eight plus years in his bones, in addition to several hundred years of genetic lineage pressing down on him. It had been a fluke that the von Seydlitz line had been chosen to become the Elector house of Brandenburg-Prussia, when so many others could have, and he had convinced himself that it had been a fluke from the onset. It was his task to prove himself and all others false in that belief. History itself was against him, and he could list so many times when a von Seydlitz had brought victory from disaster, but perished alone and without regard nonetheless. He was determined to right that course, and Nemesis would be the tool he used to accomplish exactly that.  
  
The resurrection of Zeon paled in comparison to the true goal of Nemesis, but both goals would be served by the success. A true all-encompassing plan which would finally decide the fate of all Mankind and answer the question which had plagued it since the beginning of the species' path of evolution.  
  
_Who will rule, and who will die?_  
  
He stopped in front of the _Gouf Custom_ that belonged to him, dimly illuminated by the sparse safety lights strung throughout the mines. It was inactive, as were the other eighteen suits that stood in formation before it, as if deferring to the suit piloted by their commander. He stared up at its squat "face", regarding it, then reached out a hand and touched its green-brown-gray "panzer" camouflage paint scheme. Had anyone else been there to watch this moment, they would have been shocked to see the accumulated stress of nearly a decade of war slide from his shoulders, and his posture, already ramrod straight, stiffen further into something truly awesome to behold.  
  
_I will rule with eye and claw—as the hawk among lesser birds._  
  
Unable to stifle a very unorthodox grin, he scrambled up the camouflaged leg and up into the pilot's cockpit of the mobile suit. The hatch popped open when he tapped in his keycode, and he threw himself into the seat, flicking the main power switch to ON as he settled himself comfortably inside. The red mono-eye flared to life, gazing upon the other eighteen suits as though inspecting them. They remained silent, the guises of the perfect machines of war unassailable in their statuesque design. Fine examples of the epitome of armored warfare in the age of Minovsky physics, their paint schemes identical to his own _Gouf Custom_ in every way except personal sigil and unit insignia. It was one thing to have outlandish paint schemes in a simulator, but only a child would disregard logic and smear bright colors all over their machine to make some sort of disgusting individualistic statement. And only a fool would paint their suit in primary colors, the way the Federation did. No, the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ Division was a unit of soldiers and warriors, and as such their suits would reflect this psychology to whomever laid their eyes upon the majesty of it. Anything else was for amateurs.  
  
He stretched his legs over the pilot's console, his boots sticking out of the cockpit as he settled in, inhaling the smell of a new mobile suit, unable to stop smiling as he closed his eyes.  
  
_'Black Eagle' von Seydlitz is not finished by far, and neither is this company. Nemesis will bring an end to all this foolishness, and not the Federation, the Titans, or the AEUG will stop it once it hits. Two months, and the world will quail in terror at the power of Zeon and the wrath of their rightful lords. They will learn that the price of sedition is fear and death, just the way it has always been.  
  
What gods have built, let no man put asunder._  
  
So intent was the surety of those thoughts, Reinhardt von Seydlitz did not realize it when he fell into the deepest sleep he had in eight years.  
  
And Time passed, an uncomfortable interlude before the final joyous crescendo that would announce the death knell of the Federation itself.  
  
**Duisberg, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe  
October 12, 0087**  
  
"Let's MOVE, people!! Time is running out!" bellowed Karl Weissdrake at the dockworkers, just finishing the final checks on the three barges that were arrayed in the harbor before him. The wind was getting colder as winter began to make its presence felt, and he ignored the flapping of his gray trench coat around his legs as he strode from ship to ship, his presence inspiring a higher sense of motive to the union slobs who had dawdled their way along for months on HIS bill. "These ships have to be in Regensburg in two weeks, and I'll see you and all you know damned before I'm any later than I already am! Do I have to whip you swine before I see any results here?"  
  
Now that the final refit was complete, his desire to leave this city was a heat within him, one that rivaled the heat that had disfigured him. He knew the union workers despised him after the little demonstration he had given them some time ago as a means of motivation. They accused him of so many different things, but also knew they brushed it off as being a byproduct of the War, when so many things had changed for so many people. Frankly, Weissdrake did not care what they thought as long as they obeyed.  
  
Convincing Reiter to assign minimum crews to the ships for the voyage to Regensburg had been child's play. Most intra-river shipping was automated now, with just a handful of people necessary to maintain certain functions a computer could not. Each ship would have three people aboard for the journey to Regensburg, which suited Weissdrake just fine. He would have preferred to have sailed down with the ships, just to make things simpler upon arrival, but he had orders to return to Berchtesgaden the same day the ships set sail. Everyone else had gotten used to their new mobile suits, except for himself, and von Seydlitz wanted him as ready as the rest of them. There were only fourteen days to get him trained in the simulator, but for him that was adequate time to become acquainted with the MS-14S _Command Gelgoog_ that de la Somme had managed to wheedle from somewhere. Weissdrake had kept up with such things, and wondered exactly which member of the Zeon Ace Corps had relinquished this particular suit back to Zeonic before the end of the War. He supposed it may have been Anavel Gato's old suit, but that was a stretch of the imagination considering that Delaz had never wasted anything in his life. In the end, it was irrelevant. The _Command Gelgoog_ was his now, and he was looking forward to meeting it. Von Seydlitz had called the suit "lavish" when they had discussed it over the telephone, and he was not one for baseless compliments.  
  
As for the nine sailors. . .better that he did not know what von Seydlitz had planned for them. Weissdrake acknowledged that while he was the one wearing the monster's face, but was under no doubts that the heart of the demon beat its tattoo in Reinhardt von Seydlitz's breast.  
  
**Mannheim, Hessen, Central Europe  
October 19, 0087**  
  
It was like watching a caged lion. You knew you were safe on your side of the bars, and it may seem docile while you stare at it, but it would not hesitate to savage you if it got the opportunity. _I thought this place was supposed to break him, not nurture him._  
  
On his side of the Lexan glass partition, Camael Balke stared long and hard at the man in the green prison uniform, who eyed him with a mixture of curiosity and distaste. His petition to visit von Mellenthin had come through with some difficulty, but was otherwise granted. He had known that the Zeon General had been forbidden visitors, but Balke was no normal civilian, and his argument that he had the right to face this man was most compelling, considering his past position. Then again, almost any bureaucracy tends to cave in when you threaten to sic a special interest group on them, even if it's a bluff. But they had had no reason to believe otherwise, and the former intelligence officer for the Federal 4th Cavalry Brigade, stationed at Bayreuth before the War, was granted access to see the man who had destroyed not only his brigade, but his life.  
  
_Chalk it up to pity,_ he snarled silently to himself, _they know what you've been doing these past eight years, you stupid disgrace of a soldier._  
  
Von Mellenthin, on the other hand, had no idea who this man was, but he had been imprisoned under the VERY distinct impression that no one living would ever personally see him again as long as he remained in these walls. Whomever this man before him was, he apparently had some pull with the Federation, though he did not rule out the Titans as being the cause of this. However, judging from the man's attire and general distaste for even seeing him, von Mellenthin could similarly guess that this stranger had no affiliation with the Titans whatsoever, which left very few conclusions as to what he was doing here. As no words had yet been exchanged, von Mellenthin decided to take the initiative before the five minutes were spent in a staring contest.  
  
Balke visibly flinched when the deceptively soft baritone penetrated the glass. "I will presume from your attire that you are some sort of disgruntled veteran. If you intend to shoot me through the glass, might I recommend a larger pistol, with explosive-tipped rounds?"  
  
"No, I have no intention of killing you, or even trying, Zeon," spat Balke, leaning forward. "I'm here to ask you a few questions and leave, that's all."  
  
Von Mellenthin smiled. "I find myself a captive audience, Mr. Whoever-You-Are. I also find myself at a disadvantage, due to your knowing my name and I not knowing yours. Give me your name and I will answer your questions without outright lying to you."  
  
"You know my name, just not my face," responded the former intelligence officer, "but let's not dance on the formalities. Before I begin, I want to make absolutely certain that we understand each other completely." With that, Balke reached his right hand out and held the palm facing von Mellenthin, displaying his tattoo.  
  
The smile on von Mellenthin's face vanished like a puff of smoke in a harsh wind, and an expression of fury warred with one of disgust across his features. When he had finally regained a semblance of control, he settled back and maneuvered his chained hands to rest behind his head, fingers crossed. "You're right. I do know your name, _Hauptmann_ Camael Balke, Federation Armed Forces, serial number 5457893. I trust you're enjoying civilian life now that your little vendetta against us is over with?"  
  
"It's nice to be remembered, even if it is by a fascist."

  
"Everyone needs a fan club, even dishonored civilian soldiers. So tell me, does seeing me in this place wash the taste of your cowardice from your lips, or does the defeat still linger, having been chased across Europe by your betters?"  
  
"NO!" snapped Balke, slamming a fist into the glass. "I ask the question, exile, not you! You're NOT getting inside my head!"  
  
Von Mellenthin's smile returned, but it was one of cruelty, not friendliness. "Then ask and get out of my sight, animal. I hold no love for your ilk."  
  
"Fine. That's fine by me," Balke sat back in his seat, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. He had known this would be hard, but not like this. Von Mellenthin not only had an aura of authority about him, he _radiated_ it, and it was taking all of Balke's willpower to resist this Zeon freak's charisma. Even the insults felt right to him. "I want to know about the freighter crash from back in May."  
  
"What about it? Accidents happen, even to Lunarian ore shipments."  
  
"Did you do it?"  
  
"From in here? That's a joke, right?"  
  
"Do I look like I'm laughing?" Balke snorted.  
  
"What do you _think_ happened?" asked von Mellenthin earnestly, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.  
  
"I think there's a group of Zeon out there, probably yours, who managed to get themselves some bad things to play with."  
  
Von Mellenthin's eyebrow rose, and a smirk formed on his lips. "'My' Zeon are all dead. Even your heavily-revisionist history books say so. With the exception of myself, all of my men perished at Metz."  
  
"That remains to be seen."  
  
"Calling your own nation's publishing lies now? You _have_ fallen out of grace, haven't you?"  
  
"Stop fucking around."  
  
"Surely you have better things to do that spend time witch-hunting the dead. If you manage to find any of 'my' Zeon, tell them to write me. I don't get a lot of mail in this place, and a few of them could even cook."  
  
"So you deny that anything came off of that ship before it crashed?"  
  
"Deny it? I'm positively certain that nothing came off of that ship but death. Satisfied?" snapped von Mellenthin, getting irritated.  
  
Balke sighed. "So this isn't some scheme of yours after all?"  
  
Von Mellenthin laughed. "You give me too much credit, _Hauptmann_. From this place, I find myself lucky I get to play the piano, much less plot violent coup de main. With what am I supposed to wage a military strategy? Packs of cigarettes? Some chewing gum? An anthem or two to raise the savage spirits of the people here to rise up and murder the guards? In case you missed what's standing outside, there is a Titans platoon of mobile infantry, heavily armed and waiting for the chance to use the contents of those pretty tanker trucks on all of us here. If you're hunting for conspiracies instead of your masters, OldType, I suggest you pay closer attention to the Federation, and not to me."  
  
"Pretty speech, but I don't buy it. I know your kind, Zeon, and your egos rise to the surface eventually. You won't be able to resist bragging to someone about how you duped the Federation into thinking you weren't dangerous while your leftovers blow up more schoolbuses full of children."  
  
That one hit home. Von Mellenthin slammed his boots down and propelled himself forward, coming to a halt just before the end of his nose touched the glass. There was murder in his eyes, and Balke had no doubts what would have happened if the glass had not been there.  
  
"There are no 'leftovers', Federation scum!", he hissed, teeth clenched together. "All my people DIED at Metz, and I had to WATCH! Your friends with the 9th Army, that fat fool Derrick and the rest of his moron staff, gave them no place to go, and they took the only option left to them! I was THERE, _Schweinehund_, and part of me died there, too, along with Juergen Gyar and the last EIGHT of my division! This place will kill what is left of me, and then you'll be able to sleep better at night knowing the last murder of a free man is done with! Rest easy behind your Titans, pig, and I hope Hell gluts itself on YOUR flesh and the flesh of every Federation citizen for what you did to my people!"  
  
Balke was on his feet as well, staring into the taller man's eyes with anger of his own. "What came off of that ship, liar? What have you planned this time? Was Delaz not good enough a revenge for you? How many people have to die before you finally surrender?"  
  
"_ALL OF YOU!!_" shrieked von Mellenthin, his breath steaming the glass in front of his face. "All of you MUST die, for daring to defy your genetic superiors, for daring to lie to a people about their freedom, for daring to impose your disgusting will upon us, for daring to judge the darkness without end with the same scale as you judge the dust you live on, for daring to deny that NO MEN are created equal, and for DARING to commit mass murder in the name of peace when you should tear apart the Titans for what they've done! There will BE _NO PEACE, NO SURRENDER, AND NO MERCY FOR THE FEDERATION!! NEVER!!_"  
  
By this point, the guards had come in, and were trying to drag von Mellenthin away from the glass. Balke was being told to leave by someone, but he hardly heard them, so intent was he in feeling the impact of von Mellenthin's words. The Zeon General was still screaming his rage at Balke as they forced him back through the doorway, and the final ravings stayed in his mind even as he turned to go.  
  
"_Space will be free, even if this entire **PLANET** has to die! Space WILL BE FREE, Teutonic Knight, and all you know will be as **DUST**!!_"  
  
He rubbed the Teutonic Cross, symbol of an Order older than the Federation itself, tattooed on his right hand as he left the building, his questions unanswered.  
  
Within the halls of the prison, once out of sight of Balke, von Mellenthin ceased his struggles against the guards, clapped his hands once, and laughed aloud. His entire demeanor changed, and his exhortations echoed through the hallways and all through the levels and the air vents, letting all who heard it for what it was know that as in all things, he was supreme.  
  
_Stumble until you crawl, Teuton, and maybe you will see, but until then, sleep well at night while you still can._  
  
Even after he stopped laughing, he could not suppress the grin on his face. _While you still can. . ._  
  
  



	8. Chapter 7

**MSG: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed  
  
Chapter 7  
  
Berchtesgaden, Bayern, Central Europe  
October 31, 0087**  
  
  
The muffled voice inside the office clarified fully for Day Manager of the _Salzbergewerk_ Ernst Felder as he opened the door to the salt mine's managerial office. He had thought that Night Manager Tomas von Seeckt would have long since left. It was 0730 hours, after all, and Tomas did not need to clock in until after 1530 hours for the afternoon/evening shift. That he was still here working implied to Felder that something was amiss. Another thing out of place was an empty suitcase on the desk, next to the ubiquitous violin case that lived in the office when not being played. The suitcase, if it could be called such, looked more like a military armored map case than a piece of civilian luggage.  
  
He would have been more surprised if he had bothered to realize that there were no sounds of rock being crushed in the caverns themselves, or of any other machinery operating, but his conscious mind did not clue in to the lack of noise at all.

  
He took two steps into the office and found the desk chair's high back facing him. The raven-black hair of von Seeckt was visible over the top of the chair, groomed to its usual military precision.  
  
"Tomas?" asked Felder tentatively. A gold-cuffed hand appeared from the far side of the chair, holding up a slender index finger; a request for a moment of silence. Intrigued, Felder complied, but something was making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He could not place it, but his instincts were telling him to leave now and not return.  
  
_Preposterous_, he thought, squelching the feeling of menace that was settling over him. _This is_ my_ office, after all._  
  
". . .Yes, things will be ready here tonight. We will be there on schedule. . . Find yourselves something to do and meet us at the ships at 1100 hours. _Herr_ Schwartzeidechse informs me that you have all done very well, and I shall see to it that you get what you deserve for your troubles. . . Yes, thank you, too. Keep your receipts; you will be compensated for your patience while in Regensburg. _Auf Wiedersehen_, crewman."  
  
Felder heard the distinctive beep as von Seeckt hung up on whoever it was on the other end of the phone. "Regensburg? Planning a trip without my authorization, Tomas?"  
  
The chair did not swivel around. "Not a trip, exactly. More of a late delivery to make. Nothing that needs concern you."  
  
Felder laughed aloud. "An unscheduled delivery to Regensburg, in the middle of the night, and you think it needn't concern me? Last I checked, Tomas, truck transit deliveries required TWO signatures on the manifest."  
  
Still the chair did not move. "The manifest is on the desk below the violin case. Your signature is already on it. You may peruse it if you desire, in the event I did not cross a T properly."  
  
The feeling of menace suddenly strengthened by tenfold, and Felder began to sweat. "T-Tomas, this is all very—"  
  
"—Unorthodox? Perhaps, but I can assure you it is all necessary for the common good. Take a glance at the manifest please, _Herr_ Day Manager."  
  
Felder took three steps forward, then reached out and took hold of the sheet of paper underneath it. For some reason, he did not feel like actually touching the violin case, or its larger counterpart beside it. Eyes riveted on the paper, he read the large black letters scrawled across its surface.  
  
**_BANG_-----DEAD FED WALKING!!**  
  
"Tomas, is this supposed to be some sort of joke?" he asked quietly, shifting his eyes away from the paper towards the chair.  
  
As he had read, the chair had finally turned to face the door. The piece of paper dropped out of Felder's hand as he gasped aloud.  
  
Tomas von Seeckt was indeed in the chair, but his attire was not that of a salt miner, nor of a simple bureaucrat. He was wearing a Zeon officer's uniform, smoke gray with gold. A Zeon Cross dangled from the left breast of the officer's jacket, and the piping and tabs of a Colonel were precisely placed on the shoulders and collars. A pistol was in its oiled black leather holster on his hip, and the unit patch on the upper arm was that of Mobile Infantry, the 358th Battalion. There was a smell about him as well, tangible even over the odor of pure salt deposits that inundated the entirety of the cavern. It was the smell of carnage, cordite, mechanics, and combat; a heady scent, where the coppery sharpness of human adrenalin, sweat, and blood merged with the metallic dull fumes of engines, smoke, and heat to make an aroma that could only be called "War".  
  
"A joke, _Herr_ Felder?" replied von Seeckt, light gray eyes not wavering from Felder's incredulous face. "Of course, it is a joke."  
  
"Ex—explain this, please," the stunned man managed to stammer out after what seemed like five minutes of staring.  
  
Von Seeckt raised a black eyebrow. "It is Halloween, is it not? I wanted you to see my costume before the festivities of the occasion really begin."  
  
Felder's open jaw clicked closed. "It's. . .it's incredible, Tomas!"  
  
"I thought you would approve. Note the fine attention to detail. This was a costume I have been waiting eight years to wear. It took that long to be able to do it justice." Von Seeckt stood to his towering height, allowing Felder to see the entirety of the uniform. The contrast was apparent, with the plumper Felder being dwarfed by the rangier von Seeckt.  
  
"You must have had to go through Hell to have that made, Tomas. What a thing to cavort about in tonight, eh? You'll be scarier than any phantom or ghoul out there. What a thing to frighten the children with!" The manager was visibly relaxing as his mind wrapped around the only plausible explanation for this shocking display before him.  
  
There was another explanation, but it was just too impossible to be believed.  
  
"Hell? Yes, _Herr_ Felder, there was a Hell to have to wade through to get to this point, but it was the wait for this day, not the means of fashioning the uniform and its accompaniments."  
  
"It is amazing, Tomas. Absolutely amazing. A marvel of creativity and imagination. The monsters always seem to hit closer to home when they're real, don't they?" He wiped some sweat from his florid brow with a shirtsleeve, tension bleeding away in the form of a rather stupid expression on his face.  
  
Von Seeckt smiled, just a twisting upward of the lips, like he was eyeing a rabbit caught in a trap. It was the unmistakable grin of something vicious that had found something weak and hurt to feast upon. Felder did not catch it, and it had disappeared before his eyes returned to von Seeckt's face.   
  
"I am glad you approve, _Herr_ Felder. If things work out the way I have planned them, there will be many more of these moving about. Oh, let me get away from your chair. I will, of course, be taking my leave of you now, but I thought it necessary that you should know this truth before I departed."  
  
The heftier man snorted and waited for von Seeckt to move out of the way. "You scared me to death, Tomas. Was that the 'truth' you were talking about?"  
  
"No, it was not." Felder's eyes were drawn to the gray of von Seeckt's. "The truth is that dead men do not walk."  
  
So intent had been the conversation that Felder had never heard or sensed the arrival of Vladimir Margul behind him. It also meant that when the trigger of Margul's C-357 was pulled, punching a bullet through the rear of Felder's cranium and exiting out the socket of the right eye, the last thing passing through the conscious memory of Ernst Felder was the same as the first thing that had greeted his arrival in the office: surprise.  
  
Margul leaned over the body and gave it a kick. "Zeon 1, Feds nil," he sneered in his brutish way. He, too, was in his uniform, as were the rest of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_. "The boys are waiting for you below, Colonel. The suits are loaded and ready for transit."  
  
Von Seydlitz was looking at the splatter pattern of Felder's blood, brains, and skull fragments on the wall behind the desk, as though he were an art critic judging a piece. "Excellent, _Kommandant_. The ships are confirmed as well. Place our esteemed Day Manager in his chair and go downstairs. I shall be there shortly."  
  
Expectedly, Margul had a question. "What're you going to be doing, Colonel?"  
  
"Killing Tomas von Seeckt," replied von Seydlitz glibly, "at last.". That seemed to satisfy his subordinate, who hefted Felder's corpse and tossed it across the desk into the chair. He then left, making brushing motions with his hands.  
  
Alone in the room with the corpse of a man he had known for eight years and cared absolutely nothing for, Reinhardt von Seydlitz glanced at the ruined face as he shrugged on the gray-and-gold greatcoat that made his uniform complete. "While I am not one to speak ill of the dead, Ernst, I do think you have never looked better to me than you do right now. If you search closely, you will find your entire day shift right there with you on the Other Side. My people were quite thorough, so none of them should be missing from this quaint abattoir. In fact, we will be adding nine others to God's waiting room later this afternoon. Try to be nice to them, they have no more clue than you did about what is going to happen to them."  
  
He reached over and took a second piece of paper from underneath the violin case. It was the true manifest for the shipping, complete with two signatures. Von Seydlitz tore it apart in front of Felder's unseeing eye. "No more of your paperwork from this point on. But fear not, you and yours are but the first. With Nemesis, we will give the coroners and gravediggers a Golden Age, so you will soon have more than enough company in Hell. In fact, when you get there, tell them the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ sent you, and that you want the group discount. If they refuse, inform them that the entire Federation will be along shortly, and you are with them."  
  
Grabbing the violin case as he left, he surreptitiously closed the door behind him and made his way down towards the loading bay, where the rest of his people were gathered. They were all here, all seventeen of them, the last best hope for Zeon now. He had not been pleased when he had discovered that the newly arrived Axis, being led by the nose by some twisted twenty year-old girl, had signed an alliance with the Titans, and his rage had been something to behold. He had actually spoken to Haman Kahn via shortwave just before the tactical center and its Minovsky power generator had been taken offline.  
  
_"How can you betray space like this, child? How can you possibly side with the Titans after what they have done to our people?"_  
  
_"I do what is best for Axis, and of course Lady Mineva, Colonel von Seydlitz. Anything else is the true treason."_  
  
_"You will regret the decision when the Titans turn on you, _Fraulein_ Kahn. See that Mineva Zavi is unharmed when they do, or your damnation will be that much more devastating."_  
  
_"You sound very smug for someone who's spent eight years hiding in a hole, Colonel. I think you forget just who is really in charge up here. From my vantage point, you and yours are mere specks in the dust. See that you aren't ground under the feet of Axis by mistake."_  
  
_I know that little bitch killed her father_, he thought angrily, knowing that Maharaja Kahn should not have died of old age yet. _If she is lucky, someone will smear contact poison on her Barbie dolls before Dietrich gets ahold of her and deposes her regency. What in hell were they thinking, naming a child to be regent FOR a child?_  
  
When he reached the loading area, a sight that nearly took his breath away met him. He had known that the men would be in full uniform for this moment, ever since the call had come in late last night about the ships having arrived in Regensburg, but after eight years of civilian clothes and workman's gear, seeing the gray and gold on his soldiers was like the hot water bath after a marathon run in a snowstorm, a sensation so soothing to both the physical and the spiritual that it makes one's own soul want to cry out in both pain and joy that you were alive to experience that very feeling. Using every iota of willpower he could muster to keep a smile from his face, he simply looked at them.  
  
Resplendent in his own gray and gold uniform, Sgt. Major Inaba Ogun, senior NCO for the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ Division, snapped to attention. "Ah-_ten_-SHUN, Bat-_TAL_-ion!!" he called out, voice echoing through the caverns.  
  
As a singular entity, the soles of their boots making a resounding thump that also sent its tremors through the mines, every soul present came to full military attention, as though it had not been eight years since, salutes identical in form, placement as per squad, with commander in front, their subordinates in flank half a step behind them. It was perfection given form. Von Seydlitz's salute in return was no less perfect. He owed that to them.  
  
After a moment of this, Ogun's hand came down as he stepped back from the fore of the group. "Colonel, all members present and accounted for. The Battalion is yours."  
  
"Thank you, _Stabsfeldwebel_. At ease, men." The old ritual, dating back to the formation of standing armies, complete at last. With one last sweep at the faces of the troops, as though inspecting them, he leapt upon the back of one of the heavy-lift cargo vehicles, elevating him to the point where they were all obliged to look up. He also caught Antares de la Somme with a childish smirk on his face, and he scowled in response, before running his gray eyes over them. Then, he opened his mouth, and his heart began to pour forth from it.  
  
"Men of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ Division! For eight years we have awaited this moment, biding our time, enduring under the eye of the Federation we have been sworn to destroy, patiently secreting ourselves here under this mountain for Operation Nemesis to come to fruition! That day has finally come, and the shackles of prudence have been cast from us! We are become the most deadly poison that our enemies will ever face, and we have done our work well! We stand here today, poised to sink our knives into the Beast that is the Federation, and none can stop us now!  
  
"I realize that some of you have doubts! Some of you doubt we can succeed with Nemesis without the backing of our fellow Zeon in Axis! Axis has betrayed Zeon by allying with the Titans, under the sway of a simpering jezebel who has played they and Mineva Zavi false from the day of her thrice-damned birth! I say this unto you now: _Axis is irrelevant!_ Nemesis was founded as a plan without the necessity for Axis! The Operation proceeds accordingly! Some of you have doubts that a force our size could not succeed when Delaz and Operation Stardust failed to destroy the Federation with a thousand times the resources we possess! I say that the timing for Stardust was too soon! Ask yourselves what would have happened had Stardust occurred today! With a divided Federation, who then would have stopped Stardust from accomplishing its true, final goal? The AEUG? The Titans? I say, _no one_! And that same 'no one' will not stop Nemesis! Terra stands here helpless before our storm, and like the Whore of Babylon that the Federation is, the Red Dragon of Zeon, her enslaved steed that she has ridden since inception, her mount that has harbored hatred for her ever and always, shall burn her flesh and consume her for her iniquities, and her suffering shall be _legend_!  
  
"I realize that going to war now will be hard for some of you! When we came here eight years ago, broken, shattered, grieving, in barely functional mobile suits, remembering the horror of Metz and the destruction of the rest of the Division, it was an easier thing to simply disappear into the social structure of this place than to cling to the shred of hope that I offered you when I asked you to _maintain your training!_ It was an easier thing for you to simply settle down and live out your lives here on Terra with people you would come to care about and love than to listen to me when I said to _form no ties to a dying world!_ It was an easier thing to go to Stardust with other brave remnants of mighty Zeon and die gloriously with Aiguille Delaz and Anavel Gato, striking one more time at the hated foe, than to listen to my words and _wait for Nemesis_, where you could _live_ as conquerors instead of _dying like martyrs!_ Despite this obviously simple path that you could have taken, instead you endured, and waited, and listened, and now you have seen what your patience, understanding, and obedience has granted you! Instead of the wreckages of mobile suits, we bring Nemesis in the form of the greatest advances in technology Zeon conceived of before the end of the War of Independence, a war in which we did not surrender, and a war that _we shall now win!!_  
  
"Remember this moment, when you tell your progeny of Nemesis and the resurrection of a Zeon whose destiny is immortality, that it was because of your sacrifice that Nemesis was made possible! The strength and hope of Zeon and all space lies with _us_ now, not Axis, not the AEUG, not the Titans, and not those traitors in the Republic of Zeon! We will show them all what the superior race can muster when its fury is roused, and then they will know that Zeon Zum Daikun's legacy exists with us and no force shall withstand the coming of the true NewTypes!!"  
  
Von Seydlitz paused for a moment, opening the case and taking the violin out. He held it up by its neck into the air, letting all eyes view it.  
  
"This place has been our haven, our sanctuary, and our place of rest and peace! But it is also one other kind of place, spoken of by the ancient opera composer Puccini in his masterpiece, _Tosca: 'Questo e luogo di lacrime'!_ 'THIS IS A PLACE FOR TEARS!!!'"  
  
With that, von Seydlitz drew back and hurled the violin into the caverns. The sounds of its shattering on the stone far below spoke a finality that not even words could convey properly. It also signaled that von Seydlitz had severed all ties to this place. The thing that had been a facet of their existences throughout these eight long years was gone now, destroyed by its master and player.  
  
As the shocked attentions of his men returned to him, von Seydlitz spread his arms wide, as though he were embracing them all. "I have played the strings of the violin for all this time as a means of garnering some form of peace after the War, as I did before it! From this point on, however, I choose to play no music that grants anyone or anything on this wretched planet peace ever again! The violin was an instrument of peace! Now I choose to grind the organ of war, and the Federation monkey will dance to its tune and the music we spew forth from its box will be _DEATH!!_"  
  
On that note, he leapt down from the back of the truck and motioned for them to close ranks around him. He stretched his right hand forth. Antares de la Somme covered it with his smaller one. Karl Weissdrake placed his atop de la Somme's. So it continued until sixteen hands lay atop von Seydlitz's. In unison, they began to intone:  
  
"**Who stands still, goes backward; who rests on laurels, which he has not harvested, lies only on a prettier bearskin; only he who wants to do more than what has been done already, will do what he can do. In the darkness without end, only those who are worthy will become more than what they are! We shall fear no Earthly demise, for to return to shadows and dust is to return to that from whence we come, to rule all things when the light shines upon us all! The True Light of Humanity is Zeon, and Her dead shall live FOREVER!!**"  
  
Taking their right hands away from the pile, they thrust them into the air, fists clenched, faces upturned, and with a final bonechilling howl at the tops of their lungs, they cried out as one being and one spirit:  
  
"**_SIEG_ ZEON!! _SIEG_ ZEON!! _SIEG_ ZEON!!**"  
  
After the echoes had died down, von Seydlitz lowered his arm and spoke softly. "Get these trucks moving towards Regensburg. Put civilian jackets over your uniforms for the duration of the trip, to act as camouflage if discovered beforehand. Are the charges set, _Hauptfeldwebel_ La Vesta?"  
  
"Yes, sir, ready when ordered."  
  
"Detonate once the last truck is clear. The ensuing confusion will make it so that none detect our departure until it is too late."  
  
"As you command, Colonel." La Vesta joined the rest of everybody else running to and fro, climbing into the huge vehicles for their final destination.  
  
De la Somme paused beside him, a concerned expression on his face. "With Axis outta the picture, it kinda doesn't leave us many places to go, does it?"  
  
"You worry too much, Antares. Axis will tend to itself, until we arrive. Then it will have a choice to make."  
  
The smaller man frowned. "And if they don't want to make that choice?"  
  
Von Seydlitz fixed his eyes on de la Somme's. Then he smiled the same smile he had given Felder earlier. De la Somme visibly shuddered.   
  
"They will make that choice, _Kommandant_," said the older of the two foster brothers, "or I will personally put a bullet into that hideous little whore and make up their minds for them."  
  
De la Somme whistled in a low key. "With a tone like that, I'm not even going to ask if you're serious."  
  
"Good plan, _Kommandant_. Run along now." He placed a hand on de la Somme's gold-emblazoned shoulder and gave it a squeeze as he left.  
  
With a roar of exhaust, the first truck left the mine tunnel entryway. Von Seydlitz hopped aboard the fifth one out. He was far enough away by the time of the explosion that caved in the entirely of the _Salzbergewerk_, burying everything within it under thousands of tons of mountain, it was just a tiny rumble in the range of his hearing.  
  
Compared to the cataclysm that would be Nemesis, it was just an opening spitball.  
  
**Mannheim, Hessen, Central Europe  
October 31, 0087**  
  
"I dunno, he's been like that all day. Kinda creepy, if you ask me," said one of the guards to his shift superior. They, and a sizeable portion of the inmates of Mannheim Military Penitentiary, were staring at Dietrich von Mellenthin, who in turn was staring into a book. There was nothing particularly strange about that, as von Mellenthin was a voracious reader, it was the METHOD that was catching attention.  
  
Von Mellenthin had stacked several floor mats, used in the weight room as padding for the floor, atop each other, until he had built himself an elevated tower nearly fifteen feet high. There he had perched, all day that he had been allowed to, and acted as if he refused to come down. Even his fellow Zeon had no idea why he was up there, or what he was reading for that matter.  
  
When questioned, the only thing that kept coming up was that the former General had smashed the life out of everyone in cutthroat spades the previous day, then had started talking about ghosts. He had apparently not slept at all that evening, then in the morning, when mandatory wake-up and prisoner count was complete, he had rebuffed the advances of everybody and instead built his watchtower, a vantage point from which he could see the entirety of Gen-Pop, with the exception of the upper tiers of the cellblocks. The odd pattern of behavior could actually be traced up to the point where Warden Grissom had announced that the Zeon of Axis had formally signed an alliance with the Titans, and thusly, the Federation. That had been the day before yesterday, despite the treaty having been signed on the 15th of the month. As always, news came late to prisons, even if the rest of the world had known for weeks.  
  
"Has anyone even tried to talk to him?" asked the senior guard, puzzled as well.  
  
"Yeah, like fifty people, but he doesn't want company. He just waves people away when they approach."  
  
"This is too fucked up for me. If he jumps off and dies, let me know, okay?"  
  
"Got it."  
  
On his own behalf, von Mellenthin had no intention of jumping off his tower of mats to die. Too much was left to be done for that. There was a tingle in his soldier's bones, one of imminent familiarity, one that had been a facet of his existence for as long as he could remember. He supposed it was only natural, as leadership was in his very genes themselves, but never before had it been so important, so elemental. He knew that until Mineva Zavi came of age, someone was going to have to rule Zeon in her stead.

  
That person would not be Haman Kahn, not unless she was far more resourceful than he was giving her credit for. A possibility, albeit a long one. Haman was not a veteran of the War, nor was she familiar with the way things worked in the Earth Sphere. That made her a detriment, at least until she got some combat under her belt. Considering that the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ had been an all-male unit, that was high praise to go right along with that high hope. Von Mellenthin was very familiar with high hopes; he had been young once, too.  
  
The Titans and Axis allying notwithstanding, his interview was coming up in eight days' time. The Federation News Network had been announcing it for the last three weeks. Rumor had it is was the most anticipated event prior to the Super Bowl, and that football ratings were going to take a nose-dive during the live broadcast. Von Mellenthin was also eagerly anticipating it. The Federation expected a lot of things from him for this little morale booster, and having him sign off on the joint Axis-Titans alliance would give the Federation enough popular support to give them the means by which to rid the universe of the AEUG and the Kalaba resistance once and for all. The Titans supply the artificial NewTypes the Flanagan Agency produces for them to Axis, who builds the mobile suits using its massive weapons factories. Seemingly an unbeatable pair, one capable of overpowering even the combined efforts of the AEUG and the Kalaba. On the surface, it made sense, except for the fact that the Titans were involved. They would have to go, which was probably what Haman had in mind. That also made sense. And all that had to happen for all of this to come together was for the people to want it as much as their puppet masters did.   
  
For all its power, the Federation and its group of doddering old despots had never understood the first law of monarchy: a ruler's interests are the interests of the people ruled. The Zavis had understood at least that much, even if they could not manage to take their fingers away from that which they did not understand, especially the War. It did not matter now, anyway, because the toy soldiers were dead. But the real soldiers still lived, and he knew that von Seydlitz and his men would show them all what the difference between a war run by politicians and a war run by soldiers really was.  
  
In the meantime, he would smile on the camera and give the Feds exactly what they did not bargain for, and that was the Way Things Were Going To Be. They would probably stick him in the Hole for a hundred years afterwards, but on live vidvision, he would speak, and the Earth Sphere would be obliged to listen. What a delightful turn of events, quite unlike the little visit he had received from Camael Balke.  
  
_Dreadful little shit_, he thought, remembering the tattoo of the Teutonic Order on the disgraced soldier's palm. There could not be more than a dozen of those scum left, not after almost a hundred years since the _Volkerwanderung_ that had taken his family and so many others into space, exiling them from the surface of Terra forever. The _Reise zum Raum_, the great hunt for space, was originally banishment, brought upon the Elector Houses by a secret society that dated back to the long-defunct Teutonic Order of Chivalry. Their refusal to bow to the will of the _Ordnung_ had caused a great division among the German peoples, and their lies had swayed the populace to their side. With no other recourse but to take the _Ordnung_ into space, the loyalists had leased a colony cylinder from the Colony Corporation in Side 3, set up shop, and began anew. . .but did not forget. For New Koenigsberg, the War was also about revenge, and to prove that their rule was the destined Law of Heaven, not of Man.  
  
Von Mellenthin had learned all of this at his father's side, as all the scions of the Elector Princes had learned of the treachery of the Teutonic Order. Camael Balke had come here to mock him, to remind him that for all their superiority, their divinity, and their mastery of genetics, he had still lost. The Chosen One of the _Ordnung_, made a fool in a cage, while Balke, who had lost everything on the battlefield against the superior race, walked free, even in disgrace. The entire thought was so vexing to von Mellenthin that it took effort to keep from walking around the prison snapping necks just to vent his terrible wrath.  
  
_This fool will laugh last, once my strings are cut from their frame, miserable peasant,_ he thought bitterly, hoping that somewhere Balke would choke on his bread and die from the force of it.  
  
As for Nemesis, he and those who followed him were ready when it struck. Oh, they were sorely ready. It was unfortunate that no one else would be. He was entertaining these thoughts as the lights of the prison blinked twice, and a buzzer sounded, signaling that it was time to return to their cells. Von Mellenthin closed his book and jumped down, booted feet landing firmly on the concrete floor. Two Federation guards were waiting for him.  
  
"Well, nice to see you dropping back down to our level, General," commented one of them.  
  
Von Mellenthin straightened the green prison tunic and smiled. "Every master must needs visit those whom he holds under sway."  
  
The other guard snorted. "'Master', eh? Well, 'Master', let's get you back to your royal chambers, shall we?"  
  
"What're you reading, General? Some treatise on Napoleon today?" queried the other guard, trying to stem off what was going to be a long debate on the merits of master-servant relations.  
  
"No, an opera libretto. I am finished with it, so if you would be so kind as to drop it off at the library for me. . ."  
  
"Sure." The guard took the proffered book as they were reaching von Mellenthin's cell, then glanced at the title. "_Tosca_? What the hell was this about?"  
  
"Only the best things in life, _Gefreiter_," said the Zeon General, "tragedy, treason, and death." He stepped into his cell, turning around to face them.  
  
"Yeah, only you would get off on that one, 'Master'." commented the second guard, a hint of his ever-present scorn in his voice.  
  
"Just remember, '_Certo a quest'ora i miei segugi le due prede azzannano'_! Have a nice evening, gentlemen."  
  
As the door slammed shut and the lights blinked out, the second guard shook his head. "I didn't know the bastard spoke Italian."  
  
"I think he was quoting from this," answered his comrade, waving the book a bit.  
  
Von Mellenthin stretched out on the bunk bed, folding his hands behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. The quote echoed through his mind, and he smiled.  
  
'_By now, my bloodhounds should have sunk their teeth into their prey!_'  
  
  



	9. Chapter 8

**MSG: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed  
  
Chapter 8  
  
Augsburg, Bayern, Central Europe  
November 1, 0087**  
  
It was not a matter of laziness on Camael Balke's part that prevented him from opening his shop for nearly two weeks after his return from his trips to Obersalzburg and Hessia. It was matter of rampant and unstoppable intoxication. Those in the business he worked for who knew him and what his situation was did not blame him in the slightest for wanting some time off. Truthfully, they owed him vacation time, and a month barely covered it.  
  
After his return to Augsburg from Mannheim, and his all-too short conversation with the monster Dietrich von Mellenthin, he had decided that after having come up with not one shred of physical evidence to prove that something came off of the late and unlamented bulk freighter _Non Sequitur_ that could erase the stain of the War from his past, the time had come to party like it was 0999. Ever committed to his missions, a habit that had been partially responsible for his disgrace in the eyes of the Federation Armed Forces, he decided to go forth and plumb the depths of Augsburg's ample and bizarre nightlife.  
  
After several days of public drunkenness, Ecstacy peaks, acid trips, bar brawls, violent mood swings that took him from rapturous giddiness to soul-wracking fits of weeping to choleric frenzies, whirlwind one-night stands formed at one party and broken at the next one, and more times waking up in a pool of his own vomit and spilled booze than not, he finally came out of the stupor he had been living in.  
  
A ray of sunlight, managing to pierce the gray skies typical of the German winter months, struck him full in the face, and with monumental effort, he managed to groan and move a hand to cover his eyes from its brightness. Unfortunately, it also meant he was awake, and that was not a state he wished to be in. Managing to shift himself away from the tiny ray of light, which to him felt more scorching than a beam rifle's coruscating flicker of energized death, he blinked his agonized eyes open, silently praying that the world was not going to visibly spin for him. To his great relief, it was as stable as it usually was. He closed his eyes again and wiped at his face with the hand he had used to cover his eyes. Something deep in his consciousness registered that there was something cloth-like in that hand, so it seemed the thing to do. It was not until after he was done and opened his eyes again that he realized the object in his hand was, in fact, a pair of women's underwear.  
  
Eyes slowly adjusting to vision-though-sobriety, he managed to wriggle into a sitting position. Looking around, he realized he was in his own above-shop apartment, and that he was alone. Eyes shifting to a spot on the cluttered nightstand, he breathed a sigh of relief that his wallet was still there, which was a real miracle. He had no idea whose panties were in his clenched fist, but the owner had apparently seen fit to part with them.  
  
_I hope I was as good as I must have thought I was_, he mused, grimacing and trying to remember something, anything, about the last three nights or so. Recollection eluded him, just like his absolution. He swore under his breath and wondered if there was an untouched bottle he might have stashed somewhere, anywhere. The fog that was his mind did not divulge that information.  
  
Dropping the underwear, he reached back and clasped his hands, stretching so that his spine and ribs all cracked, fighting the dizziness of the blood rush to his head by sheer effort of will. It was time to get up and do that thing that most would call a life, but he much preferred "penance" as a descriptor. He carefully swung his legs over the side of the bed, mindful of the broken glass and debris strewn across the floor of the apartment. Groping around the nightstand, he managed to get a hand on his wallet and opened it, checking the balance on his bank account via PDA link.  
  
"No wonder," he groaned aloud. He'd broken the bank two days ago. Nothing to steal, no need for the wallet.   
  
The moment had arrived to judge whether or not the hangover that was making his skull pound and his thoughts moist also had an effect on his mobility and balance. Dropping his wallet back on the bed, he slowly began to ascend. Halfway up, he straightened his legs, feeling both knees scream in agony at the weight. By luck, skill, or miracle, he managed to stand upright, the cartilage and ligaments attached to his kneecaps popping rather pleasantly into motion again.   
  
_Yay. I've evolved. Take that, von Mellenthin._ Wobbling slightly, he began the long trek to the coffee maker, the TV, the bathroom, all of which seemed several dozen kilometers away. Stumbling a number of times en route, he finally succeeded in getting to the bathroom, glancing in the mirror at the round face, the dark hair, and the soldier's physique he fought hard to maintain; he was not entirely displeased with what he saw, except for the red in his eyes and slackness of his jaw. The expression on his face could only be described as "stupid".   
  
He slapped himself once, and did not feel a thing. Bummer.  
  
After relieving himself (a function he was in more dire need to perform than he had noticed earlier), he continued on his _Hajj_ towards the kitchen and the dual blessings of black coffee and current news. Out of habit, his hand slapped the ON button on the vidvision as he maneuvered past the mold-caked dishware and stained, partially filled glasses that made up the majority of his place settings. He chided himself for his slovenly living conditions, putting to rest any questions as to why he lived alone. The fact that he was naked and scratching the hair on his chest while standing in his kitchen did not even cross his mind as a possible culprit for his solitude, any more than the fact that the window blinds were open.  
  
The vidvision, perpetually set to FNN news network, was louder than anything had a right to be, but Balke endured it anyway. At the very least, it served to slice through the haze his higher consciousness was wading through.   
  
"'. . . Titans Commander-in-Chief Brigadier Jamitov Heimann announced today that relations between Earth and Axis quote 'could not be better'. Denouncing the AEUG/Kalaba renegades in a press conference earlier today, Brigadier Heimann promised to 'bring the malefactors to justice under the righteous might of the Federation'. Recent troubles on Side 2 and other Spacenoid colonies have forced the Titans to commit more and more forces in keeping the discontented populations under control. Titans Space Commander Colonel Bosque Ohm was quick to agree with Brigadier Heimann's proposal of a united Titans/Axis task force to hunt the AEUG insurgents down. Axis representatives were unwilling to comment on the proposal at this time. In other news. . .'"  
  
_The more things change, the more they stay the same._ Space was going to explode, sooner or later. All the signs and portents that anyone who worked in the Intelligence business could recognize said as much. Balke picked up the percolator and sniffed the odd-colored contents. It appeared to have been the container of what smelled suspiciously of very cheap bourbon. Grimacing, he poured it down the drain of the sink and started running water into it, sloshing it around. While he gave it a thorough swabbing, he started looking for a coffee mug or cup or something that was not infested with some alien form of life. The first one he grabbed slipped from his wet hand and exploded into pieces upon contact with the floor.  
  
"Shit," he muttered quietly. He finished with the coffeepot and started setting it up to brew. He would have to sweep the shards once he was in the mental state to do so. Without coffee, breathing was a challenge. Deciding that his current condition was intolerable, he decided upon drastic measures. He cleared all of the dirty dishes out of one of the sinks, then stoppered it and began to fill it with ice-cold water. This was going to be painful, but at least he would be able to think.  
  
"'. . .said the man was raving as he moved, stabbing and slashing as he went. Citizens commented that the teacher who subdued the man after being badly wounded himself was 'a hero'. The final toll of casualties was nine dead, fifteen injured. Police say that they plan to question the suspect as to why he attacked the classroom of children once he awakens from his coma. . .'"  
  
The smell of brewing coffee began to overpower the rancid odors of booze, vomit, sex, and unwashed human-with-bad-diet. When the sink had reached a suitable depth, he took a deep breath and plunged his head into the frigid water, the shock of it making him gasp despite himself. Submerged, he closed his eyes and let the temperature force his blood to pump faster, clearing some of the hangover-induced fog from his mind. After a minute that felt like an hour has finally passed, he raised himself from the icy liquid, feeling it flow down his skin of his back to pool on the floor. He let the breath he had been holding go with an explosive exhalation.  
  
"_Ahhhh!_" That was much better. He shook water out of his eyes and hair, scrubbing his face with his hands. The world was still fragmented, but at least now he had something tangible to focus on.  
  
_Maybe I'm not cut out for redemption. Maybe this is the plan God had for me all along. Maybe that Spacenoid Nazi isn't telling a lie after all. Perhaps I really am living in the best of all possible worlds. I set my own schedule, I don't have to do a lot of labor, I make a decent living, I've got the world's most dedicated customer base. . .this could be a lot worse. _It was so easy to justify disappointment when coffee was about to hit your system. Finding another reasonably clean mug, he reached for the percolator as it beeped that its task was complete, eager to imbibe of the dark, black, liquid heaven.  
  
"'. . .tragedy yesterday in Berchtesgaden as the site of the 400 year-old _Salzbergewerk_ salt mines collapsed after an explosion. Residents claim this is the worst disaster to ever befall the mines, and that they harbor little hope of survivors. Experts at the site believe the explosion was an accident involving dynamite used to hollow out the cavern. Rescuers and work crews have been digging around the clock to discover the truth about what happened in the second disaster in the Obersalzburg area this year, following a freighter crash in the mountains nearby this past May. Our reporter on the scene says that it will take several weeks to even clear out the mines enough to begin a proper investigation. Local authorities claim that at least thirty are presumed dead inside the mountain. . .'"  
  
Before the coffee mug, filled with its steaming contents, even touched Balke's lips, his universe clarified, then crystallized, erasing every trace of the hangover that plagued him from his mind. His eyes bugged out of his head as his mind wrapped itself around the words _Obersalzburg, tragedy, freighter, _and _presumed dead._  
  
And they all hearkened to a single sentence, complete with the mocking voice: _'I'm positively certain that nothing came off of that ship but death.'_  
  
His heart racing, he carefully sipped from the coffee mug, wondering if this was not some sort of joke the anticipation of caffeine was playing on him. It was not the caffeine. At that moment, the phone began to ring for his attention, and like a man walking in a dream, he moved towards it. He made it halfway when the door buzzer also sounded. Decisions, decisions. He took a long, scorching swallow from the coffee mug before deciding that the door was more important, and he walked towards it, a blank stare on his face as everything he had spent months hoping for began to form in the depths of his mind, overriding everything else.  
  
_That son of a bitch! That SON OF A BITCH!! He was lying the entire time! Where would I hide if I were a group of Zeon on Earth? Under a fucking mountain, in the deepest hole I could find, that's where!! I've got to go there again! I've got to KNOW!_  
  
So intent was he on his thoughts that he did not even realize he was stark naked when he opened the door.   
  
**Regensburg, Bayern, Central Europe  
November 1, 0087**  
  
"Yes, _Herr_ Leiger, we are quite pleased with the vessels. My concern wishes to express its gratitude to you and your crew by allowing your people to remain in Regensburg for a few days, at our expense. . .Yes, we realize that this isn't a normal event, but Regensburg is a beautiful and fascinating city, one your Westphalians are not familiar with, and we thought it would be rude to not show them the sights. . ." spoke 'Ernst Schwarzeidechse' into the cellular phone. ". . .We will have them back to you in seven days' time, guaranteed. Your company has performed up to all our expectations with the refit, and we are in your debt. Should we require your services again, may I speak on behalf of my concern that you will be our first choice for intra-Europe shipping. . .No, thank you, _Herr_ Leiger. _Auf Wiederhoren_."  
  
Karl Weissdrake pressed the OFF button on the phone, breath steaming in the cold atmosphere, and turned to Reinhardt von Seydlitz. "It's done."  
  
"Very good, _Kommandant_. These nine are destined to be dumped into the Donau, so you and the _Gefreiters_ Foxe may depart for Munich to make your rendezvous. I trust everything is arranged to your satisfaction?" They were standing in the cargo hold of _RMS Ruhrort_, the last of the three eight hundred-ton barges. _Westfalia_ and _Duisberg_ were already loaded and ready. The last of the heavy-lift transports would be stowed here, their cargo containers (each with a mobile suit and all its armaments within) to cover the nine red liquid stains that colored the otherwise gray deck.  
  
"Yes, Colonel. There are three refitted _Medea_ transports waiting for us. We'll hit Lammersdorf in seven days, the same time you reach Heidelberg. The practice drops we performed with the simulators succeeded in every way I needed them to. We won't fail."  
  
Von Seydlitz allowed a ghost of a smile to form on his lips as he looked without hesitation or revulsion at the scarred visage of his longtime associate. "I know, Karl. You have not failed me yet, or Nemesis." He put out a hand, and Weissdrake took it without hesitation. "Remember to meet us afterwards on E431 northbound, before we enter the Taunus _Gebirge_. Speed is essential."  
  
Weissdrake's eyes gleamed. "I know. We'll see you there, Reinhardt. Be careful." He turned and began to walk towards the ramp.  
  
"You and yours as well, Karl."  
  
The Airborne specialist stopped halfway up and turned to face von Seydlitz. Snapping to attention, he saluted. Von Seydlitz returned it.  
  
"YO!!" called out a voice above them, completely destroying the mood of the moment. "Are you gonna spend all night making out down there, or can we get these suits stashed before some _Hafenpolizei_ wonders what we're doing late at night playing around here and comes to take a peek at what we've got, because if we get busted, I'm gonna tell him I was out jogging and didn't see nothing, and then I'll—"  
  
"Enough." Von Seydlitz's hand dropped from the salute, and his cold grey eyes swiveled to the top of the loading ramp to glare at Antares de la Somme. "You made your point several verbs ago. Say _Tschuess_ to Karl, then load the trucks."  
  
"_Tschuess_ to Karl," smirked de la Somme as he embraced Weissdrake. Like von Seydlitz, he had known Weissdrake for a long time as well. "Don't look stupid while you're away."  
  
"Don't look stupid while I'm gone. Take care of the Colonel and the rest of this. I'll see you at Taunus." With that, Weissdrake walked away, towards the truck with the Foxe twins waiting in it.  
  
De la Somme's smile threatened to split his face apart. "I'm never stupid-looking! Bring me back something from Lammersdorf!"  
  
Weissdrake waved once, then climbed into the idling truck. With a roar, it began to move towards the highways, on its way to Munich with three _Gelgoog_-type mobile suits stashed in the rear.  
  
Von Seydlitz reached the top of the loading ramp, waving at Haskell and Kerr to come over. De la Somme watched the truck until it disappeared behind the warehouses that lined Regensburg's harbor area.  
  
The smaller ace pilot sighed audibly. "He was such a good boy growing up. Now he's left home to go play on his own."  
  
"Karl was never a good boy. That is why he is going to Lammersdorf and not you."  
  
"And what magnificent role shall I perform in this grand play you're directing, _Oberst_? I can do a decent Mercutio if you'll cue me."  
  
Von Seydlitz did not even grin. "A role of great importance, Antares, but not yet. I will, however, be requiring the use of Kerr and Ogun's _Dom Tropens_, as well as the _Dom_ belonging to _Leutnant_ McKenna, but not until we reach Heidelberg. No, your role is to wait, watch, and wonder."  
  
De la Somme frowned. "Sounds boring, _mein Bruder_."  
  
"It will be, for seven more days. Then, nothing will be boring ever again. In the meantime, be patient and stop picking fights with Margul."  
  
"You are just determined to remove any hope of me having a good time, aren't you?"  
  
"Determination is part of the job. I trust the other two ships are ready to cast off?"  
  
The younger of the pair actually went serious for a moment. "Yes, sir. _Duisberg's_ ready at your convenience. Five minutes after that, _Westfalia_ can put to water."  
  
"Make it ten minutes between departures. A little space goes a long way in not attracting attention."  
  
De la Somme gave out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a giggle. "If you'd wanted to be inconspicuous, Reinhardt, baby, you wouldn't have blown up the salt mine."  
  
Von Seydlitz conceded the possibility that the manic ace pilot had a point, but surprise was the key to the next phase in the plan, and the explosion was the most efficient way to cover their tracks. He did not reply to de la Somme's statement.  
  
The first of the remaining trucks roared past them into the cargo hold, maneuvering into its position perfectly. After piloting eighteen meters of mobile suit, driving a truck in an enclosed space was no challenge whatsoever, even with vehicles of that size and weight. _Ruhrort_ shifted in the water, bobbing up and down, as several hundred tons was stowed aboard. The other two trucks waited their turns patiently.  
  
"_Kommandant_, inform _Gefreiter _Taglienti to cast off now." It was time to dispatch the first ship. At standard cruising speed of about 18 knots, it would take about seven days to arrive in Heidelberg.  
  
De la Somme put two fingers to his lips and let out a shrill whistle that overcame the rumbling of the trucks' engines and make von Seydlitz wince. Then he waved his hand twice, following it up by giving the furthest ship the finger. For a brief moment, nothing happened. Then, the engines of the 800-ton barge began to cough, then strengthen, and its propellers began to make revolutions. Small figures on the ship began casting off lines that tied the massive vessel to the dock, and it began to pull away from the harbor and move out into the Danube River.  
  
"_See you at the party, boys!!_" yelled de la Somme after the departing vessel, waving frantically. After a few seconds of that, he stopped and noticed that von Seydlitz was staring at him. "What?"  
  
"What was wrong with walking over to the ship and telling Taglienti to set out?"  
  
"I liked my way better," smirked de la Somme, "it's what tiggers do best."  
  
Von Seydlitz closed his eyes and shook his head, walking away from the other pilot, muttering to himself. Unable to resist, de la Somme followed, hopping up and down in circles around von Seydlitz as they proceeded towards _Westfalia_, leaving the noise of the trucks behind.  
  
**Lyons, Rhone-Alpes, Western Europe  
November 3, 0087**  
  
Someone was calling him, but he was heedless of their pleas. The total concentration of Titans Captain Garrett Sajer was on the three RMS-106 _Hizacks_ arrayed in front of his brand new mobile suit. There were the lifeless wrecks of three other _Hizacks_ behind him. He had to admit that the slime at Anaheim Electronics had been outdone the RMS-154 _Barzam_. It was superior to the _Hizack_ in every way, which helped sweep away the stink that seemed to travel along with every mobile suit designed by Spacenoids. _Barzam_ was not a Spacenoid creation.  
  
Kicking the mono-eyed suit into a run, he slashed out with his beam saber, forcing the _Hizacks_ to scatter. One of them took a shot at Sajer's _Barzam_ with its 120mm autocannon, but hit nothing but air as the more agile suit veered to the left and power-jumped towards its quarry. Caught off-guard, the _Hizack_ stood little chance of evading the more-powerful _Barzam's_ attack. With a deft flurry, Sajer rendered it into scrap, the titanium composite armor of the _Hizack_ no protection against the fury of the beam saber's blade.  
  
_Too easy. These things look so much like_ Zakus _that it's a pleasure to kill them._  
  
The radio squawked for his attention again, and he continued to ignore it. Whatever it was could wait until after his training run. In the scope of his universe, mobile suit combat was the only respite from a career doomed to ignominy, and he would be damned if anything interrupted his all-too-brief vacation from dealing with the cheap affairs of Europe.  
  
He had his reasons for his animosity. The son of a Spacenoid mother from Side 4 and an Earth-born father, Sajer had fallen in love with mobile suits and fallen in hate with the Duchy of Zeon. When he had come of age, he had joined the Earth Federation armed forces, knowing that just because the War was over did not mean that all wars were over. When Aiguille Delaz's Operation Stardust came into being, he had begged to be sent into space to defend the mother planet from the Spacenoid depredations. He was denied, on account of his age and rank. When the dust from the colony drop had settled, and the Titans had formed, he had joined their ranks without ever looking back at the Federation's mustered soldiery. By that point in his career, he had already consigned the Federal Armed Forces as a lost cause. Any force that refused to fight and kill its enemy, much less deny such missions to someone willing and able to accomplish that mission, was the sign of foolishness to a man like Garrett Sajer.  
  
With the Titans, he had expected to be on the fast track to promotion and combat opportunities, two of his greatest lusts in life. What he received in turn was very different. After requesting space duty in 0084, he was flatly denied, and the reason behind it was the original seed for his irrational hatred for all things Spacenoid. For the first time in his 21 years, he had been on the receiving end of political prejudice. The fact that he was half-Spacenoid had brought down the axe of judgment upon his career. He could (and would) be promoted, but as far as the Titans were concerned, he was staying on Earth, never to see combat against his "fellow Spacenoids" unless they broke through and happened to occupy the planet. The chance of some latent "pro-Spacenoid programming" done to him by his mother was too great to risk him not being able to pull the trigger in combat.  
  
With the Titans/Axis alliance in place, there would never be a full-fledged invasion of Earth by the AEUG now. Again, Fate had damned Garrett Sajer to a life of being forgotten. Wars came and went, and he never got his chance to prove himself, and his loyalty, to Earth. Therein lay the root of all his hatred.  
  
His assignment to Europe was also a slap in the face. While the 54th "Massachusetts" Titans Tactical Armored Brigade was one of the most revered, decorated, and notable units in the entire Titans mustered soldiery, with a heritage that hearkened back to the American War Between the States, its reputation was not enough to save it from being the burden of a fate all true soldiers fear the most: garrison duty.   
  
Assigned with the duty of preventing Spacenoid sedition on the continent of Europe, the 54th TTAB was nothing more than a "what-if" scenario force, ready to put out fires that no one in their right mind would set alight. To make matters worse, they would be under the nominal command of the Federation provisional European government: that meant that they took their ultimate orders from Colonel Lucas Edgrove, who had the authority to supercede the order of the Brigade Commander, Titans Major Golan Tizard.  
  
A jarring crash shook Sajer out of his ruminations, as one of the two surviving _Hizacks_ managed to score a hit with a 120mm round on the gundarium alloy armor of the_ Barzam's_ dorsal right side. Sajer's eyes flicked over to the instrument panel, expecting red lights to blossom as the damage report displayed itself. Instead, everything remained normal. He marveled at the masterpiece of engineering he piloted. Gundarium armor was head-and-shoulders above even the vaunted Zeon Luna-Titanium. With such armor, it was no wonder that mobile suits like the RX-78 Gundam had been so devastating in combat during the War. With a snarl of pleasure, he wheeled the monstrous _Barzam_ towards the offending _Hizack_ and snapped off a shot from his beam rifle, narrowly missing the other suit. The pilot of the _Hizack_ was not bad, as he used the inferior but still nimble suit's few useful tricks to evade the beam rifle's blast and shoot back. While the impact of the 120mm cannon was brutal, even to Sajer, it was also futile. The second beam also missed its target.  
  
As a Tactical Armored Brigade, the 54th was smaller than the standard Titans Brigade, which was the reason for its being commanded by a mere Major instead of a Lt. Colonel or higher. While its size made it easier to move the entire Brigade from one point to another, it also put it on the lowest priority for upgrades to its supply inventory. This fact had been of great concern to Sajer when he had been assigned to the 54th, who had wondered if he would never pilot anything better than the aging RMS-179 GM IIs or the _Hizacks_. He need not have worried. A commanding officer like Golan Tizard knew exactly where his priorities lay, and in so doing insured that the 54th got a nice piece of everything that came into the Titans' equipment list. This _Barzam_ was one of those triumphs of negotiation and intimidation that Tizard knew best. Despite his best efforts though, Tizard could not convince the Titans Supreme Headquarters that the 54th was ready and willing to take the fight to space and destroy the AEUG once and for all. The argument that the reason that the Kalaba had never operated in Europe was because of the presence of the 54th TTAB fell upon deaf ears, and so it was in Europe that they stayed.  
  
And so it was to the fate of the 54th that Sajer's own fate was also tethered.  
  
Despite being in the 54th, and despite holding the position of Titans liaison/adjutant to Colonel Edgrove himself, Sajer was not content, and never would be until he was killing Spacenoids, whose very existence had cost him his own. All Tizard's attempts to mollify the young Captain would all be in vain unless he could succeed in changing the minds of Titans Supreme Command and getting his brigade into the fight for real.  
  
Another hit, this time from the left flank, staggered the steps of his _Barzam_, but again the armor held against the impact of the shells. The mobile suit stumbled a bit, and the _Hizacks_ attacked. The nimbler of the two closed for melee combat while the second gave fire support from the flank. The radio buzzed at him again.  
  
"Not fucking NOW, dammit!" he screamed at it, watching through shivering eyes and his world shook from another hit and the beam rifle went flying out of the _Barzam's_ grip. He managed to recover his balance and gave the gunnery _Hizack_ a burst from his Vulcan gun pod. He watched with satisfaction as the black-and-red armor of the _Hizack_ crumpled under the barrage, and it collapsed. That left the one that was closing in on him very quickly, heat hawk in its hand.  
  
The _Hizack's_ pilot had proven himself worthy, but not worthy enough. As the mecha-sized axe descended, Sajer deftly parried it with the beam saber, severing the blade of the heat hawk from its handle in the process. The second slash finished the Titans grunt suit, and the game was over. Sajer felt the all-too familiar rush of victory, muted by the knowledge that he would have to return to Bonn for another six days without getting to pilot this wondrous suit. That fact elicited a grimace of hate to form on his face.  
  
_I would murder the Federation itself for the chance to kill all of space. If there's any justice in the world, I will be granted that wish someday._  
  
The radio buzzed yet again, and he angrily mashed a finger on it. "WHAT?!?" he snapped irritably.  
  
The voice that emanated from the other end erased all traces of anger from him, replacing it instead with shame. "Captain, while I trust your outburst is due to your impressive victory, I should sincerely hope for your sake that you never take that tone with me again."  
  
Sajer coughed, clearing his throat, as he brought the _Barzam_ down from combat readiness. "No, sir, just the heat of the moment. How may I serve the Titans?"  
  
Tizard's voice, colored by an eastern European accent that sounded a bit like Hungarian, continued. "Colonel Edgrove requests your presence in Bonn at the earliest opportunity. He seems to feel the need to have you there holding his hand when FNN broadcasts the interview with the 'Hessian Lion' on the ninth."  
  
There was no small amount of dislike between Edgrove and the Titans, and that translated to their respective European command structure as well. Sajer knew that Tizard would love nothing more than to unify all of Europe's military presence under his own command. Like Edgrove, he was a veteran of the War, though his own successes had come from the Battle of Solomon and the Battle of Abowaku. For a space veteran to be consigned to Earth for the duration of the Titans/AEUG War was a shameful end to a stellar career. Sajer, had he been in Tizard's position, would rather have traded his fate with one of the victims of the Konpei Island naval review nuking back in 0083 than have to put up living with a fate like Tizard's.  
  
Despite the injustices done to a man of his combat experience, Tizard was an honorable man, one who held up to a form of chivalry not usually seen in mobile infantry. He also had a keen intellect, a talent for using mobile suits to their fullest potential, and never seemed to lose his temper over anything. Sajer had to admit that Tizard was a far more patient man than he could ever be.  
  
"I depart for Bonn in an hour and a half, Major. Do you think the Federation can survive long enough for me to shower?" His _Barzam_ helped one of the _Hizacks_ to its feet. The other five were clambering up on their own power after the training programs finally released them to their pilots' cognizance.  
  
Tizard laughed. "I have every belief that it would collapse that much faster if you were not allowed a shower, Captain. See me once you've completed your ablutions and before you leave."  
  
"As you command, sir." Sajer thumbed off the radio and began to march the _Barzam_ back to the base motor pool with all the finality of a man going to a gallows.  
  
And in his heart, hate writhed and grew.  
  



	10. Chapter 9

**MSG: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed  
  
Chapter 9  
  
Berchtesgaden, Bayern, Central Europe  
November 9, 0087**  
  
_'It's up to you,' he says. 'You're the only one who can sort this out', he tells me. Assholes leave me to hang in front of a Federal court martial and NOW they call me back! Ingrates, the lot of them! They can coax me into dicking around down here after the fact, but they can't get me reinstated into the service with a clean record because it's not 'politically prudent at this juncture'!_  
  
Camael Balke's thoughts raged unchecked as he stomped his way back towards Dorff and the car, boots slogging through the mud and grass, coat drawn tight across his shoulders against the chill air.   
  
The ex-Ranger had not needed to be coerced into coming out here, but he'd waited to give an affirmative to the request until after Balke had admitted that he needed his help to solve the mystery of _Non Sequitor_ and the _Salzbergewerk_ accidents. At first, Balke had chafed at being "assigned" a "chauffer", but Peter Dorff was as determined as he was to find out what was happening, and he had a lot more to lose. Moreover, the _Pionier_ had taken it upon himself to lie to his own family about his whereabouts for the next month or so, and Balke had to admit that was gutsy. Bavarian wives were notoriously vindictive when it came to being smokescreened, and Balke knew that Dorff was risking not only his life on this little adventure, but also the possibility of a great many nights sleeping on a couch with a feather-filled blanket as his only company. That paled in comparison to the heartbreak that Balke knew the poor man was suffering from being separated from his wife and children, but had to give the guy credit for having a spine enough to tackle what could very well be leftover Zeon from the War.  
  
Balke had begun to wish he had a family of his own to use as an excuse to NOT come out here. As much as he wanted to be vindicated in the eyes of his former, chosen profession, he did not appreciate having one of his former colleagues, a Brother from the Order of the Teutonic Knights, dropping in on his smut shop unannounced (especially when he was stark nekkers and coming off a week-long sex and substance orgy). The conversation between the two of them had become quite heated, and Dorff on the speakerphone had been forced to rely on the fact that if pressed, he would chokeslam both Balke and his uninvited guest if they did not start speaking civilly to each other. That was when the Brother informed Balke that the Order had reactivated him in light of the "burgeoning possibility" that Zeon partisans had, under the orders of the imprisoned General von Mellenthin, begun an operation on Terra's surface, under the noses of the Federation and the Titans both.   
  
As it was, he'd spent three days here using all his best information-gathering tricks to try and clear up the picture, or even at least confirm whether or not this was anything but an accident. While people were more than happy to talk to him, there was simply no way to know what happened inside the salt mine until the work crews cleared it out. That was going to take an immensely long time. Balke had to acknowledge that if this disaster was a means of covering some shady tracks, it was good enough to shake even the most determined foxhound.  
  
_Who could it be? How many of them are there?_ He was grudgingly forced to also admit that if the unknown someone was planning to hurt the Federation, now was the perfect time for it. The Kilimanjaro base had fallen to a Kalaba strike just a few days ago, and Titans presence on the surface of Earth was lower than ever. The Federation was becoming hard-pressed to find soldiers to defend the planet with, and the Titans were only busy bees in space.  
  
_Live Zeon soldiers in nice, peaceful, unprepared Europe. Talk about asking someone to face down his or her bad dreams. It's not fucking fair._  
  
Balke hissed as he stubbed his toe on a rock, catching himself from tripping. Dorff laughed at him from the car.  
  
"Breaking a leg now will do us no good, Captain," he remarked, his florid face grinning as Balke gave him the finger.  
  
"I'm pretty certain that even down a leg, the result will be the same, Dorff. This place is a disaster area. It'll take them weeks to clear it." Balke slid into the passenger seat, slamming the door angrily. "The only thing I've been able to verify is that the body count may be larger than estimated."  
  
Dorff looked at him as he started the car. "How so?"  
  
Balke pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut in fatigue. "The entire night shift of the mine is missing as well as the day shift. The disaster team thinks they may all be down there."  
  
"But you think not?"  
  
"Thinking's a little hard for me right now, Dorff. How do you keep everything clear in your skull?"  
  
Dorff smiled. "Beer and pretzels, Captain. And not working for quasi-religious Crusaders, of course."  
  
"Remind me to retire again later. Let's get on the road to Bonn. Time to have a talk with that dingleberry Edgrove tomorrow with all the evidence backing my play to get me either institutionalized or incarcerated with von Mellenthin as my cellmate."   
  
"And you claim dreams never come true." Dorff glanced at the chronometer on the dashboard. 1448 hours. Too early for dinner, but they would time it just right if they could reach Bonn in about four hours or so. Traffic would be murder, though, so Dorff figured they'd have to stop along the way.  
  
**Mannheim, Hessen, Central Europe  
November 9, 0087**  
  
The cell door's locking mechanism whirred open, and Dietrich von Mellenthin opened his eyes. Without moving anything else, the blue-green orbs flickered over to the door as two guards entered the room. One of them tossed a plastic-wrapped bundle on the bed beside him. It was fairly heavy, and made a satisfying thump when it landed.  
  
"Change," said the guard.  
  
Von Mellenthin moved, fluid as a cat, to his feet. He picked up the parcel and tore open the plastic with his hands, inhaling the scent of the smoke-gray and gold uniform inside. Even after Grissom had had the battered uniform resized, repaired, washed, and pressed, it still retained the smell of the War. For a moment, he was content to simply clutch the uniform to his face, breathing in the past and reliving it in memory that only the olfactory sense could loop back to the consciousness. War and sex, so tangibly different in scent, but the results were so amazingly similar. Only those two human functions elicited such a response from what was the species' worst and least-appreciated sense. Even the smell of food could not tap into the amount of memory buried in the aromas of war and sex. He would have wept if not for the guards.  
  
Then, the green prison uniform he wore suddenly seemed as abhorrent to his flesh now as when he had first donned it almost eight years ago. He stripped quickly, as uncaring about being nude in front of the guards as he would have been in front of a mirror. With a relish he did not bother to try and mask, he began to dress in the only skin he had ever preferred. The guards watched, implacably, as the prisoner became a Major General of Zeon Mobile Infantry again.  
  
"No officer's sidearm?" he queried, a slight smirk on his face widening into a leer as the guards scowled. They had also not brought him his Academy ring, though his other decorations were provided.   
  
He stomped the last immaculately-polished black tanker's style boot onto his foot, adoring the feel of the uniform again with the entirety of his being, brushing the shoulders and arms with his hands, as though he were sweeping away invisible lint. He studied himself in the mirror for a moment before he looked at his guards and smiled in genuine glee. "Game face is on. Let's go."  
  
One of the guards held out a set of manacles. "One last set of bracelets to make this picture complete, General, sir."  
  
Von Mellenthin caught the snide within the 'sir', but chose not to respond as the cuffs clicked into the locked position on his wrists. "After you, gentlemen."  
  
"No, General, after you," said the other guard. "We insist."  
  
"As you wish." Von Mellenthin stepped out of his cell and out onto the walkway. Gen-Pop was lively today, but when he walked out of his cage dressed in the uniform of Zeon, the entire building went eerily silent. The prisoners stared, jaws agape. Von Mellenthin paused and looked down at them, his smile a permanent fixture today.  
  
One of the guards prodded him with a truncheon. "Keep moving, von Mellenthin. The ladies don't want autographs."  
  
"Let's take him down in the cargo elevator," commented the other. "Less conspicuous that way."  
  
Von Mellenthin began walking, towards the area where the access gate to the service elevator was. Then he stopped again, turning his neck to spear the guards with an eye. "You know what? I think we should take the scenic route."  
  
With that, von Mellenthin took a hard left and began walking quickly down the stairs, two at a time, into the general population. The guards lurched, then hurried to catch up.  
  
"NO! Come back here, von Mellenthin!" called one of them as they hurried down the stairs to catch up, but the damage was already done. He was at the bottom before they could reach him, waiting for them.  
  
"Hey, Charlie!" called down one of the other guards, "you need some help with him? You and Hopkins having problems down there?"  
  
"Fuck off, Eddie!" sang back 'Charlie', the snide guard, pissed that the prisoner was herding them through the general population just to make a scene. He pointed a finger in von Mellenthin's face. "Try any shit like that again, and you might accidentally fall on a moving bullet. Get it, convict?"  
  
The Zeon general smiled evilly. "Haven't I haunted your kind enough already? Killing me will make you a very popular guy to me, especially when you sleep."  
  
"Stow it and walk, or you'll be late."  
  
As the three of them strolled towards the far door that led to the rest of the complex, von Mellenthin saw that ahead, the former Zeon soldiers had formed two parallel lines alongside the door, and were standing at military attention, awaiting his passing as though he were reviewing them. His already-ubiquitous smile grew even larger when they saluted him as he approached, without even being commanded. To make room for he and the two guards, they took a single step backwards, widening the aisle towards the door, where two other guards awaited them.  
  
With his hands chained, von Mellenthin could not return their salute, so he opted for something a little different instead. As he passed the last two former soldiers, he paused in his walk for a third time, spinning around to face the rest of Gen-Pop and those whom he had already passed. He raised his chained fists in the air above his head, fingers clenched together.  
  
"_Sieg_ Zeon!" he called out, his baritone voice sounding like thunder as it reverberated from the walls.  
  
"**_Sieg_ Zeon!!**" was the returned reply from the soldiers. "**_Sieg_ Zeon!!**"  
  
The chant continued, even as the guards began to forcibly lead von Mellenthin out of the doors. Soon, even the nonmilitary prisoners had taken up the hail, until everyone in prison greens was shouting, with fists in the air.  
  
"**_Sieg Zeon!! Sieg Zeon!! Sieg Zeon!! Sieg Zeon!!_**"  
   
  
"In all honesty," continued Warden Grissom, "I'd expected you to bring more people with you for this."  
  
FNN correspondent Irina Fields smiled, teeth white as pearls. "No, just me, the camera man, and the sound and light people. In all honesty, Warden, if I'd had a clue just how large a space you were going to give us, I would have brought more."  
  
"We try to make our guests more comfortable than our inmates, Ms. Fields. This room used to be an auditorium, but was closed down for reasons unknown. I'd never seen the need to reopen it until this." Grissom had to keep from fidgeting. He was twice divorced, and looking for company, and 'Ms. Fields' was really a 'Ms.' that he would love to tack an 'R' and a '-Grissom' onto. She apparently thought he was something of a prospect, too, considering the amount of times she had smiled at him since her arrival at Mannheim Military Penitentiary. She made him feel like a schoolboy with a crush, and he was reasonably certain he was acting the same way.  
  
_Won't matter. Von Mellenthin will behave himself and make me look good, and then she'll know who's running the show here._  
  
She was speaking again. "I want to put the chairs over there, with only about a meter between us. That'll make the camera angles more personal than professional, even if the interview is bland as dirt."  
  
"A meter?" Grissom frowned. "He'll be chained and all, but that seems a little close—"  
  
She hit him with the smile again. "Pretty please, Warden? You already said he'll be chained and I'm sure he won't try anything with you and your guards present." It was common knowledge that Irina Fields got what she wanted when she wanted it. There was not a soul in the news industry that was as relentless, ambitious, or driven as she was. The rumors about her would have made the Marquis de Sade blush and Thomas Torquemada wince at some of the tactics she had resorted to or the things she had done to claw her way to where she was now, the hallowed position of FNN field reporter, just a rung or two down from the main desk at the six o'clock broadcast. The one thing the rumors all did agree upon, however, was that she did deserve to be there, no matter how she happened to make the trip. She was absolutely fearless, totally determined, and got the job done no matter how much dirt or shit she had to crawl through to accomplish it.  
  
What she had not bothered to do, however, was get to know anything about her subject for the evening in advance. Grissom knew that she was under the impression that while von Mellenthin was the only Zeek general captured alive during the War, she presumed he was an older man. Thirty-one (the General had celebrated a birthday in mid-October) was hardly old, and Grissom was a bit apprehensive about von Mellenthin's uncanny ability to get into someone's head and charm them into malleability. In her ignorance, Fields did not recognize the inherent danger she was placing herself in.  
  
Despite his misgivings, Grissom relented to her request. "All right, then, but don't let him kiss you."  
  
Fields's eyes narrowed, then she laughed as she realized he was just joking. "If I can handle those geriatrics in Dakar, then I'm certain that I can handle an old Zeon general, Warden."  
  
Grissom casually took her by the upper arm and drew her a few steps away from her crew. "Ma'am, with all due respect, I don't think you have a clue what it is you're dealing with here. Dietrich von Mellenthin isn't like anything I've ever seen before, and I've seen the best and worst of people in this place. Spacenoids don't view life the way we do, and I don't think they consider us human at all. Von Mellenthin is a lifetime subscriber of Zeon Daikun's ideas of human evolution, and I'd suggest you treat him exactly like what he is."  
  
Fields leaned in so close that Grissom could smell her breath. "And just what is he, Warden?"  
  
"A savage beast in a cage, with no morals or scruples whatsoever that would correspond to a normal value system. Even the shrinks say his superiority complex is so absolute as to be inhuman."  
  
"You're actually worried about all this," Field quipped, then she touched his face. "That's sweet, but I'm a professional. I've seen battles and space, and I know what I'm doing. Being inhuman doesn't mean he _is_ inhuman, and he's going to catapult my career into a higher orbit than Side 6. I busted my ass for two YEARS to get permission to conduct this interview, live, across Earth, and he will behave himself like a gentleman throughout it, or you'll make him pay. But that won't be necessary, because if you did your job properly then he won't have enough will left to do anything but answer what I ask him. I'll make him bark like a dog if I want him to."  
  
She glanced at the clock on the wall. 1655 hours. "Showtime in less than five, Warden Grissom. I think you'd best go attend to our shackled Prince of Darkness while I finish things up here." She patted him on the shoulder as he turned to leave.  
  
"I hope you're right, Ms. Fields. I truly do." Grissom motioned to the guards, who marched out of the room behind him.

  
  
The chorus rumbled its way through the prison like an oncoming storm, echoing through the pipes and the walls, and Grissom shivered involuntarily as he saw von Mellenthin approach in his Zeon uniform. "I hear your fan club calling."  
  
Von Mellenthin shrugged. "They see me in this uniform and it gives them something to hope for. My compliments to your tailor for the repair work. I can hardly tell where the damage was."  
  
"Yeah, well, we try to put up with everyone's wishes here. The customer knows best. I didn't know you had the Zeon Cross."  
  
"With Oak Leaves, yes."  
  
Eyes on the medal, Grissom squinted. "No Sword as the addition for exemplary field valor?"  
  
"I might have warranted it, but the War ended before then. No, only one man in my division received the Cross with Leaves and Sword before Metz. The Federation did not allow posthumous Zeon awards ceremonies."  
  
"The 'Killing Star'?" guessed Grissom.   
  
Von Mellenthin blinked. "Yes, that's correct. You know your history well, Warden Grissom. I am impressed. Anyhow, I received the Cross for Berlin, the Leaves for Paris. It was the least the Zavis could have done after giving me an understrength division and telling me to win their stupid war for them."  
  
Grissom snorted. "_You're_ claiming to have a problem with the War?"  
  
"Only the inevitable outcome considering the way it was run. The Zavis acted like Hitler and the _OKW/OKH_ did in World War II, and I was not afraid to tell them so."  
  
"I'll bet. Next you'll be saying you weren't in command at Luxembourg."  
  
Von Mellenthin quirked an eyebrow. "I wasn't. Where's the nice reporter lady?"  
  
"In the auditorium. Remember our deal, von Mellenthin."  
  
"I've not forgotten, Warden Grissom. Shall we proceed?"  
  
Grissom fidgeted. "She'll call when she's ready. Quite the balleater, this one."  
  
Von Mellenthin smiled. "Of course she is."  
  
The door creaked open, and a sound crew guy waved them in.  
  
**Heidelberg, Baden-Wuerttemberg, Central Europe  
November 9, 0087**  
  
"'Good afternoon from Central Europe. This is Irina Fields, FNN news, here at Mannheim Military Penitentiary, where in just moments I'll be conducting, live, the only interview ever given to Major General Dietrich von Mellenthin, former Zeon commander of the vaunted 10th Mobile Armored Division during the One-Year War. For those viewers who aren't informed, the 10th Mobile Armored Division was responsible for Operation Lorelei, the conquest of Europe during the Terra invasion, and while they made remarkable gains in their drive towards the Iberian peninsula, they were eventually halted, then turned back, by Federal Forces just prior to Operation Odessa.'" spoke the pretty face on the vidvision screen in Eichbaum's Bar on the _Hauptstrasse_, managing to get this off to a grand start by mispronouncing his last name, saying 'Mel-in-thin' instead of the proper 'Mel-in-tin'. Every face in the joint tonight was turned towards the screen.  
  
Unlike the non-informed viewers that Ms. Fields was alluding to, everyone in this place knew of the 'Hessian Lion' and his merry band of mobile infantry from the War. The dichotomy of Operation Lorelei was still being studied years after the War, but not tonight. This evening, the eyes of scientists, politicians, soldiers, and civilians were on the vidvision screen, to catch a glimpse of something so rare that history books would bear the name for however much eternity there was for the human race.  
  
That something was _sole survivor_, and everyone wanted to see it. Too bad it was a lie, but even Planck's Constant was not.  
  
Despite the misnomer, the same basic urge held true for Reinhardt von Seydlitz, sitting in a dark corner of the already dimly-lit bar, sipping at a glass of something dark with a foamy head. His gray eyes were riveted on the screen, seeking the face of his foster brother, whom he had not seen since Metz. He needed it more than the beer he was drinking, even if it was just on a screen instead of in person. He would have preferred "in person". As it was, his uniform was underneath a nasty green trenchcoat that did not seem out of place, considering that it had begun to snow outside.  
  
He was taking a risk being here, but seeing as how his appointment was just down the street, he could not help but take a quick tour. He had been to the Palatinate Museum, the ruins of St. Michael's Basilica, the Karlstor dungeon and archway, and the Bismarck Column across the Neckar River. But he'd especially wanted to visit the _Heiliggeistkirche_, the Holy Ghost Church, which dated back to 1399 Old Calendar. Elisabeth von Hohenzollern was entombed there, and he had wanted to speak to her before Operation Nemesis began, as one Prussian to another. King Ruprecht von zur Baden, dead since 1410, her husband, was also there, and he had asked for pardon in bringing the tools of war into Heidelberg for the first time since 1849.  
  
Irina Fields was speaking still. "'It took FNN two years to convince the Federation Assembly to grant permission to speak with the man who some say was responsible for as much atrocity as Giren Zavi himself during the War. Considering the destruction brought to Luxembourg and Metz, among many other places in Europe, those beliefs may be truer than anyone wants to realize. Nevertheless, we at FNN, and this reporter especially, have been waiting to hear it from the lion's mouth for a long time. Viewers and listeners worldwide, the 'Hessian Lion', Major General Dietrich von Mellenthin.'"  
  
Aside from the clink of glasses and bottles, and the sharp intake of breath from von Seydlitz, the bar was silent as stone as von Mellenthin, in uniform, stepped into the light, big as life and looking every inch the soldier he was, shaking a manacled hand with an apparently surprised Ms. Fields and smiling at the camera with all the flair he could under the circumstances.   
  
Almost overcome with emotion, von Seydlitz had to take a long swallow from the beer glass before it shattered in his fingers.  
  
_He looks well. Thank God, he looks well. It has been a long time indeed, brother mine, and I can see you have not lost your propensity for grandstanding._  
  
"Dietrich," he whispered, forcing himself to be quiet when what he wanted to do was shout it at the top of his lungs. In all his life, no one had touched him on more than a basic emotional level except the man on the screen. Even Antares had never been as close to him as von Mellenthin was. With a trembling finger, he pressed a button on a handset in his jacket pocket. It _beeped_ dutifully.  
  
"'It is a pleasure to speak with you today, General von Mellenthin.'"  
  
"'It is a pleasure to be speaking to you, Ms. Fields. Yours is the only face I've not been forced to see here for eight years, and anything new here is a true delight.'"  
  
Ms. Fields blinked. "'We try to accommodate, General.'"  
  
The Zeon grinned. "'Accommodation is also rare here, and almost as beautiful.'"  
  
Von Mellenthin and Ms. Fields were seated now. "'They called you the 'Hessian Lion' during the War, General, yet you seem the perfect gentleman. Why was that?'"  
  
Von Seydlitz finished his beer and checked his watch. 1705 hours. He stood, sparing the vidvision one last glance.  
  
A barmaid saw him stand to leave and angled over towards him. She had been the first to see him come in, and was almost smitten, even though he was older than she by at least ten years (his birthtime had been crossed about eleven hours ago). "Anything else I can do for you, sir?" she asked him, heart beating wildly.  
  
"Not at the moment, no," he replied in the same tone as he had when ordering, turning his ice-gray eyes on her face as he pulled on his smoke gray gloves. He had encountered this phenomenon many times before, and while once he would not have turned down her not-so-subtle advances, his mistress at the moment was Nemesis.  
  
With an almost visible effort, she tore her gaze from him and looked at the tabletop. "What, no tip?" she asked, her job surfacing to the fore of her consciousness for a moment.  
  
Von Seydlitz grinned with his lips, not showing any teeth, as he gently touched her face with a pair of gloved fingers. Then he walked out the door of Eichbaum's, with von Mellenthin's voice in his ears as the cold air swirled about him.  
  
Outside Eichbaum's, in the cab of a heavy-life truck, another beep forced Antares de la Somme's eyes open with the same shock that a cup of cold water would have elicited. "_Wha-?_ Treaty of Ghent, teach!" he exclaimed to the air as he went from dream-state to wakefulness.  
  
Wiping at his sleep-encrusted eyes with his gloved fingers, he reached over and started up the truck with his other hand. Glancing out the window into the snowfall, he saw von Seydlitz's head cross in front of the truck as he made his way to the passenger side door.  
  
The cold air flowing in when von Seydlitz opened the door finished waking de la Somme. "_Sheesh_, Reinhardt! Were you born in a barn? Shut the frelling door already! It's freakin' cold!"  
  
As the Colonel slammed the heavy door shut, de la Somme quipped, "So, how's your soul doing?"  
  
As a reply, von Seydlitz reached out and grabbed the back of de la Somme's neck with a gloved hand, pulling the smaller man over and embracing him. For a moment, the two sat there with their arms awkwardly about each other, before the older man planted a kiss on his foster brother's head and released him. "My soul is very alive, and now it is time for its vindication. Get rolling."  
  
De la Somme rubbed at the moisture on his cheeks. "Lemme stop my eyes from leaking first, okay?"  
  
"You have ten seconds."  
  
"Gee. Thanks, bro."  
  
Von Seydlitz mashed another button on his handset, wringing another beep from the device. "I am not the one being a weepy little girl."  
  
De la Somme swatted him on the upper arm with the back of his hand. "Leave me alone. We're going already."  
  
The heavy-lift truck began its rumble down the _Hauptstrasse_, crossing through the _Marktplatz_ that once was a square for burning witches and heretics, and where the bandit Hoesterlipps was publicly executed in 1812.  
  
Von Seydlitz found that historical fact eminently fitting.  
  


**Mannheim, Hessen, Central Europe  
November 9, 0087**  
  
"If I might be allowed to speak candidly," continued von Mellenthin, "my nickname was given to me by the Federal armed forces, I presume as a gesture of respect, or hatred. Either way, you would have to ask them."  
  
Irina Fields was still getting over the shock of seeing this man in the flesh, so very different from her expectations. His youth was one of the larger, yet altogether pleasing, bonuses. That he was younger than she was by about three years helped her treat him as more of an equal than she had originally thought possible. With the older veterans, they tended to be nervous or hesitant about what she might ask. Von Mellenthin exhibited no signs of caring what she asked him, no matter the subject. It was as though he was immune to any form of self-consciousness on the part of how the entire Earth Sphere thought of him or what he said.  
It also did not help matters that the man was singularly handsome, and that if things had been different, she could have dated him. Even his voice, with its accent, was catching. Of course, the knot was that he was actually younger than she. Remaining composed despite these thoughts, as any professional should, she continued. "So much has changed since the War, General, both here on Earth and in space. Have you managed to keep up with things since your incarceration?"  
  
"Oh, yes. The warden is very much appreciated for allowing the news to be broadcast to us here, and for letting us know things the media does not choose to report, and we repay his generosity by not allowing baser instincts to rule us. Now, if you're going to ask about current events of this day, I admit I am somewhat behind on the times."  
  
"How do you feel about the continuing conflict between the Federation and the AEUG? Does it seem to be a familiar war to your perception?"  
  
"I would have to answer in the negative, especially when comparing it to the Zeon War of Independence."  
  
She raised an eyebrow to that. "What makes you say that, General?"  
  
"The battle between the AEUG and the Federation is an internal conflict between humans with an idea of who should be running the government. The Zeon War of Independence was fought for an independent space, between two different species. Were it the same type of quarrel, Axis would not have sided with the Titans."  
  
"You can't seriously believe that Spacenoids and Earthenoids are two separate species, General."  
  
Von Mellenthin's smile widened. "I most certainly can, and do. I am no more an Earther than I am a Martian. The Federation has accepted that Spacenoids are different by their creation of a separate system of due process for Earthenoids and Spacenoids. That includes a separate system of law as well, I might add. Their own work to disassemble such a belief structure has instead reinforced it, and the largest example of this is the Titans."  
  
Fields decided that now was the time to change the subject. "Going back to the One-Year War, I understand you actually knew the Zavi family prior to the war. What were they like?"  
  
Von Mellenthin took a deep breath before replying. "Yes, it is true that I and my family had dealings with the Zavis, as did all the representatives of the Bunch colonies of Side 3. You have to understand before I begin that the perspective of the Zavis has been clouded into a sort of one-dimensionality since the War, and that your perceptions of them may be far from the truth, so what I say may be surprising, almost repugnant in fact, to anyone who has become used to thinking of the Zavis as a pack of monsters. From a personal aspect, they were very much like any other family that desires power.   
  
"If I may be allowed to speak frankly of the dead, Archduke Degin seemed to me, even to a boy, as a man who was both attracted to and repelled by politics. He was very desirous of achieving political and social goals for his people, but unable to shake off the shame of the accusations that he had a hand in Zeon Daikun's untimely death. He may well have been guilty, and that guilt blinded him to many things. I hear that he and Admiral Revil were on the brink of an armistice before the end, prior to the Battle of Abowaku."  
  
"That seems to be the truth of it, General. Please continue your fascinating insights." Fields, despite herself, was actually very interested. This man had been privy to things about the Zavis that few had ever been. Besides, von Mellenthin was a natural storyteller.  
  
"The children were seemingly easy to understand, and that made them even more complicated than the Archduke. Garma was very young, younger even than most of the people he commanded, but he had never really wanted to be a soldier. I believe Garma would have been completely happy to have read a book rather than fly his _Dopp_ aerofighter into battle, despite his actions before his death. He was always the quiet and shy boy, who became bowed over by the expectations of others, but considering that he was a Zavi, the same could be said for all of the Archduke's spawn. His becoming a soldier helped him overcome his inherent shyness, but that was really the only good thing that ever came of his being in uniform, for him. He simply did not possess the heart of a true warrior, though he went to the darkness without end like one. Garma represented the future, but he had to die to satisfy the present. I like to think he knew when he went to command the North American division that his life was already at its epilogue.  
  
"Kishiria was the one whom I had the most contact with. It was from her that my unit originated, despite its autonomous functionality. She was cursed with being the ugly duckling that grew up to be an equally ugly adult duck. She gloried in the romance of war, the battles when the good hero vanquished the evil antagonist with the power of love and rescued the maiden, sweeping her off to some sweaty coital escapade somewhere off the pages, to live happily ever after until the marriage ended and the drinking began. This facet permeated everything about her, but she could not look in a mirror and conclude with certainty that she could be the damsel in distress. I once mentioned to her that perhaps she was destined to instead be the good hero instead of the weakling damsel, and if the post-War debriefings are accurate, she realized that before the end on Abowaku. She was very much the dreamer, even more so than Giren, but not so much that she failed to recognize that for every happy ending, something had to suffer.  
  
"Dozul was exactly what he was: a kindhearted man trying to be a tough guy trying to be a kindhearted man. He and I saw little in common with each other, so we took pains to avoid each other except at the business level. Dozul's largest problem was that he possessed a working knowledge of a caregiver, most likely from his mother. I've no doubt that he loved his wife and daughter with the entirety of his being, because that was how he did things. But in his younger days, he hated what he was, and so he affected the gruff arrogance he was more noted publicly for. His size and appearance only served to heighten the illusion. He was the athletic one of the bunch, and seemed to relish contact sports and bruises the way an academic relishes accolades about his or her published work. He was loud, obnoxious, and generally rude, but anyone who truly knew him could see that he cared deeply for everyone around him, and that it scared him that despite his best efforts, he could not protect them all. The assassination of Saslo was his greatest failure, especially since he survived that incident and Saslo did not, which explains a lot about his dismal defense of Solomon. He was unable to distance himself from his men, and that was one of the reasons he and Char Aznable did not get along.  
  
"Saslo was dead before I really got to know him, and it was at his state funeral just before the purges in Side 3 began that I first became acquainted with the Zavis. I was a mere thirteen years of age in 0069, but from what I've gathered from those who knew him, he was singularly uninterested in politics except as a tool. His death was a tragic piece of misfortune that led to more tragic pieces of misfortune. From what I understand, he was more like Garma than any of the others. Imagine what would have been different had it been Giren lying on that bier in 0069."  
  
"Which brings us to Giren himself."  
  
"Yes," nodded von Mellenthin, "the very 'face of the devil', Giren Zavi himself. He's been accused of so many things, from being the reincarnation of Adolf Hitler to the source of volcanoes, herpes, and stillborn births. Would it surprise you to know that Giren was an intellectual by nature? Yes, Giren enjoyed research, the sciences, and understanding the fundamental makeup of the universe around him. He enjoyed operas, dancing, and tending gardens. He loved children, probably because he grew up with so many siblings. He was a fanatical speller, would cheer at football games, and preferred to tune up his own motor vehicle. He also had a passion for flying kites and crossbreeding flowers.   
  
"He was about as normal as anyone, with one psychological exception: he was obsessed with not having anything with authority above himself. He hated his father for being his father, and after the death of Zeon Daikun, he began to set up his chess pieces to place himself at the top of the food chain. He was the ultimate rebel, and would do everything possible to ensure that he was the one calling the shots. But he also knew that he would have to delegate to his siblings for a time during the War, and I am certain his skin crawled with that itch. His nature made him consider his brothers and sister as threats to his own position, just as his father was. You must realize that to a man like Giren, the patricide of Archduke Degin with a Solar Ray was no more troubling to his conscience than you or I stamping on an ant. Who in hell cares about the fate of an ant? And yet, for someone who understood nothing of familial relationships, he was very close to his siblings, and I think that closeness was what drove him over the edge during the War. He also envisioned a very different world for Spacenoids than Zeon Daikun did, and it was because of that vision that billions died in the War. To Giren, the idea of being a superior human fit perfectly with his own psyche, and no amount of logic was going to change his mind about it."  
  
"And yet during the War, you yourself spoke our repeatedly against having the Zavis involved with your people, General. Why did you push for that, when you knew them so well?"  
  
"Because I did know them so well," explained von Mellenthin, tapping a finger to his head. "The Zavis were the very reason that Zeon was defeated, because at their core, even Dozul's, they were not soldiers, but instead politicians. I assure you that if any of them had been soldiers, those mobile suits outside would be _Zakus_ and not GMs." He glanced at Grissom and his guards from the corner of his eye, noticing that they were all wearing skeptical looks on their faces.   
  
"That's an interesting theory, General."  
  
"No theory there, just fact. The Zavis basically remained outside the scope of the Zeon military operations until the third assault drop on Terra and the signing of the Antarctic Treaty. The only exception prior to that point in time was the initial blitz and the colony gassings, which were Giren's idea, and tactically logical I might add. That Operation British failed to strike Jaburo is a fortune of war, but not an irrecoverable dilemma. Before the stalemate, which you will note did not occur under my command, the Zeon armed forces, outnumbered still by thirty to one, accomplished the greatest military campaign in the history of humankind. No terrestrial empire ever conquered that much of the planet. Half of the surface of the planet was under our flag, and that did not change until the Zavis decided to undermine their field generals and make policy themselves. But I would have done things quite a bit differently, had I been given command."  
  
Field flashed her smile again. "Let's discuss that, shall we? What would you have done differently in the War?"  
  
Von Mellenthin waved a hand in her direction and leaned forward. "Let's _not_ talk about that, shall we? The past being the past, it's best not to dwell too deeply into it. I'm no lover of 'what if' scenarios. Instead, let's talk about _today_. Yes, what I would do today if I had the means by which to do so."  
  
That confused Fields for a moment. "What about today? In what way?"  
  
The blue-green eyes twinkled. "Let us presume, for a moment, that somehow a group of Zeon soldiers did what Colonel Bitter and his men did at Kimbareid in 0083, and managed to hide themselves on Earth from the Federation. As an example, let's use England as their home away from home. . ."  
  
**Pfoerzheim, Baden-Wuerttemberg, Central Europe  
November 9, 0087**  
  
A nudge to the ribs woke Camael Balke from a less-than-peaceful slumber. Grimacing, he cracked open an eyelid. "Why couldn't you be a beautiful blonde, waking me for some sordid adventure, Dorff?"  
  
"If beautiful blondes are what you're looking for, Captain, there's one talking on the radio right now who might tickle your fancy," quipped the ex-Ranger as he turned up the dial on the radio broadcast of von Mellenthin's interview.  
  
"'. . ._the first thing I would do, after acquiring such weapons as I would need for this task, is wait until my opposition was suitably distracted, in a very similar fashion to what the Federation currently is today. In other words, wait for a proper moment to strike with the utmost power, and in such a way that retaliation was long in coming_. . .'"  
  
Balke's lips peeled back from his teeth in hate. "Have you been listening to this asshole the entire time?"  
  
"Yes, Captain. He's extremely articulate, and quite the storyteller. He went through a 'Life and Times of the Zavis' segment that almost made me run off the _Autobahn_, it was so compelling."  
  
"Remember that word _compel_," snorted Balke as he sat up and began to seriously listen.  
  


**Lyons, Rhone-Alpes, Western Europe  
November 9, 0087**  
  
"'_. . .next step is to discover a weakness, a chink in the armor, some horrid conspiratorial sword of Damocles to hold over someone's head, because you know that on the open field of battle there would be no way to win in a pitched battle. Let us say, for example, that these freedom-fighting Zeon partisans uncovered some startling truth that would bring shame to the Federation, like that they were seeding food shipments to the Sides with half of a lethal poison, which would remain inert until the other half was introduced into the food supply, like in the event of another Spacenoid uprising. . ._'"  
  
_That's a hell of an idea. I'll have to submit it to Colonel Ohm in the morning._ Major Golan Tizard's concentration was diverted slightly by the move on the screen, a rather rambunctious attack on his flawless-thus-far Pirc defense by a black knight/bishop combination. _Sajer's getting impatient. I'll have to stamp out his knight as a lesson._  
  
The Zeon general was definitely aware of the aspects of the game. Tizard wondered what it would have been like to have faced the 'Hessian Lion' on the field, but that had not been in his theater of operations during the War. He shifted a pawn a space forward, effectively trapping the unsuspecting black knight.  
  
**Heidelberg, Baden-Wuerttemberg, Central Europe  
November 9, 0087**  
  
"Now!" spoke von Seydlitz into the handset, at the same time he slammed a green flare on the side of the heavy-lift truck and fired it off into the atmosphere, to detonate in the sky with a bang. The incandescent spark flashed its life into the atmosphere, a harbinger from another time given life once more.  
  
Near the Karltor archway, where the harbor docks were, the cellular container doors of _RMS Ruhrort, Duisberg,_ and _Westfalia_ opened like a clamshell, and on a trail of fire rocketed the MS-18E _Kaempfer_ belonging to Vladimir Margul into the air from the interior of _Duisberg_, landing inside the city with a thump that rattled windows and shook the earth, before making a long-distance jump to the side of the _Koenigstuhl_. The green-gray-and brown mobile suit, bristling with weaponry, ratcheted a round into its shotgun and pointed it at the huge telecommunications tower that was situated on the mountainside, behind the castle, from a range of about five meters. Anyone near a window in the tower could look down the muzzle of the massive weapon, and know that one pull on the trigger would ventilate the entire tower. The red eye that glared forth from the squat head underneath the wicked spiked antenna brooked no arguments.  
  
A hair's breadth behind Margul's _Kaempfer_, an MS-14C _Gelgoog Cannon_ launched at the command of Private Gary van Allen, touching down with significant asphalt damage in the vicinity of the Gaisberg lookout tower, its thrusters powering it there in a single jump. The beam cannon mounted on its shoulder scintillated once, and a spear of light impaled the main headquarters of the _Polizei_ on the corner of _Rohrbacherstrasse_, immolating the building in an explosion that consumed the structure and setting fire to several others. It was impossible to know how many people perished in the first shot of Operation Nemesis. It also removed all of Heidelberg's paltry ability to combat mobile suits, the equipment burning in a slagged wreckage along with their pilots.  
  
If the green flare that still dazzled in the sky were not indication enough to the citizens about downtown that something was amiss, the resulting explosion of the _Polizei_ HQ and the incineration of most of the surrounding block was enough to shock even the most clueless passerby.  
  
Two more _Kaempfers_, the remainder of the 2nd 'Grimravers' Shock Platoon, sped across the few blocks between the docks and their assigned destinations. Verniers bellowing to slow their impressive speed, they skidded to a halt beside a large green building, one covering each direction up and down the _Hauptstrasse_, kicking aside parked automobiles and street signs in their haste. As the heavy-lift truck containing von Seydlitz and de la Somme parked itself in front of the doors, Lacerta and Reiter popped the hatches on their suits and jumped to the earth, Taiga-70-R submachine guns at the ready as they marched towards the only entrance to the structure.   
  
In a simultaneous launch from the ships, the two _Dom Tropens_ and their cousin _Dom_ all walked from their berths and cut on their massive ground-effect thrusters, enabling the huge suits to glide on cushion of air. Skimming across the _Hauptstrasse_, mindful of the landmarks as well as their comrade Zeon on the ground, they hopped onto the Mannheim-Heidelberg _Autobahn_ and went to the maximum land speed that McKenna's _Dom_ was capable of, which was 240 kph. Hurtling the overpasses as they floated at their tremendous speed, they were on their way out of the city limits moving due north, heat sabers and raketen bazookas dangling from their backs, MMP-80s in their hands.  
  
Its footsteps rattling windows as it walked, the MS-06Fz _Zaku II Kai_ piloted by Anton Dalyev opened fire into the air with its own MMP-80 90mm autocannon, its sound like the fury of a thousand jackhammers, setting dogs all over the city to barking and halting most civilian traffic. Despite the War never touching Heidelberg, there was little chance of confusing the sound of a mobile suit cannon for anything else. The civilians who were not already moving ran for cover, clearing the street away from the Zeon suits as fast as they could go. Along the way, the _Zaku Kai's_ spent shell casings rained down onto the street below, a molten hail to accompany the screams of the fleeing population. People even abandoned their vehicles and fled on foot rather than attempt to swerve around the oncoming 18 meter mobile suit, whose red mono-eye saw everything around it.   
  
Slithering out of the hold and into the Neckar River, two MSM-07E _Z'Gok Es_ and the MSM-03C _Hygogg_ that were the suits of the 186th 'Deep Dwellers' Amphibious Platoon began their mission. When the last of the ground suits, the MS-14Fs _Gelgoog Marine Commander_ that was Captain Roberts' suit, had flung itself from the innards of its ship, the three ships began to move away from the docks, but under the power of the mobile suits beneath them and not their own engines. Running up to 14 knots, the ships continued on their way towards the Rhein, only the claw tips of their belly-hanging passengers visible above the waterline. After the _Polizei_ station's cataclysmic destruction, no one was even paying attention to the river anymore.  
  
The other suits began taking up their own positions, for maximum coverage through the Rhein-Neckar valley. From the onset of the launches to the positioning of Haskell's MS-06K _Zaku Cannon_ beside the _RZPD Deutsches Ressourcenzentrum fuer Genomforschung GmbH_, the blitz had taken fifteen seconds.  
  
Von Seydlitz was out of the heavy-lift vehicle, along with de la Somme, even before the first civilians had time to scream, ratty green overcoat forgotten as he dropped it to the ground, his Zeon uniform now proudly displayed before the world. Lacerta and Reiter were already waiting, the machine guns in their hands identical to the one in de la Somme's.  
  
"Lead on," said von Seydlitz, drawing his own C357 from its holster. The two shock troopers kicked in the doors of the building, then entered. De la Somme was right behind them. 

  
  
"Purge the files!!" screamed the director of the German Center for Genetic Research at his stunned secretary just as the main doors burst open, admitting three men in gray-and-gold Zeon field uniforms. The one Federation guard on the premises was in the process of pulling his pistol when a burst from one of the machine guns stitched a line of red blood and ruined flesh across his torso, dropping him. Another machine gun burst went into the ceiling, raining drywall and plaster to the floor of the main lobby.  
  
"Nobody fucking move!!" roared the blond one, pointing his gun directly at the director. "Back away from the computer, bitch, or you die here!" The woman obligingly did not try anything suicidal, and the keypad remained untouched.  
  
The shortest of the three Zeon paused for a moment, his machine gun still silent, before taking a right and moving down the hallway. The man who'd shot the guard stormed over and yanked the secretary away from the main computer with one arm, throwing her to the floor where his blond associate was putting everyone else in a group. The director followed, cursing inwardly and wondering how in the hell anyone had known about this place.  
  
Antares de la Somme opened the door to a classroom where his intuition was leading him. Inside, he saw a middle-aged woman in the corner, trying to block anyone who entered away from eight young children.  
  
"Howdy, Ma'am. I'm afraid you and your eight kids are gonna have to come with me, please." He gestured with the machine gun's barrel towards the hallway as he took several steps into the room, smiling the entire time.  
  
The teacher, terrified but determined to protect the children, shook her head. "Who-who are you?"  
  
Instead of the man with the gun, one of her students, the oldest one, Erik, answered. "He is Antares. He has come to set us free."  
  
With minimal effort, every living being in the building was secured in the main lobby. The stench of fear was everywhere, as the unarmed doctors, nurses, and administrators were herded like cattle at gunpoint. There were about a dozen of them, all told, plus the eight children and their teacher that de la Somme had led in by the hand.  
  
The eight children had been eerily quiet as they were led along into the lobby with the adults. In spite of that, the youngest of them cried out when they saw the body of the dead guard, blood pooling on the carpet beneath him. They were just beginning to realize that something was very wrong when the main doors blew open, admitting a blast of frigid winter air into the lobby.   
  
Reinhardt von Seydlitz, pistol in hand and all the warmth of the winter outside in his eyes, strode in like a thunderstorm, the wind whipping his gray trenchcoat around his perfectly polished boots. "Which one of you is the facilitator of this place?" he asked, voice brooking no argument.  
  
The director, slowly overcoming his shock, raised his hand. "I'm the senior administrator here. Who are you and what do you want?"  
  
"My name is _Oberst_ von Seydlitz, _Herr_ Administrator. What I want is for you to do exactly as you are told for the duration of our stay here."  
  
"What right do you have to do this?" The man was getting bold, despite Lacerta's machine gun pointing at him.  
  
"The right of a conqueror over the conquered. Do not take the moral high ground with me, sir. We, after all, are not the ones conducting illegal genetic experimentation in national landmarks." Von Seydlitz took two steps forward and whipped his pistol across the director's face. Blood and teeth sprayed over a number of the lab's other employees, who cried out in surprise and fear. The children did the same, but were somewhat reassured by de la Somme's wink at them.  
  
"You're making a mistake!" yelled one of the other employees. "This is a school! We're not conducting experiments here, genetic or otherwise!"  
  
"Really. All schoolchildren rate Federation guards these days?" Von Seydlitz walked over and looked down at the man who'd spoken, harsh face and harsh eyes in accord. "I suggest next time you plan on tinkering with human genetic code, you do not acquire a Lassky sequencer and several dozen Kilian RNA processors on the open market where they can be traced."   
  
Von Seydlitz crouched, bringing his eyes level with the man's. "Where I come from, genetic experimentation is a societal mainstay. You cannot hide the tools of the trade, not when the very techniques you use were pioneered by us." With that, he rose to his full height again and marched over to the crumpled form of the director.  
  
As the director held onto his ruined mouth and sobbed, von Seydlitz stared at him. "This structure used to be a Mensa facility for learning. In 1693, it was called the _Marstall_, and it served as an armory for the Palatinate Elector-Princes. You hypocrites have turned it into a weapon production plant for the Federation, but now you have been liberated by the Archduchy of Zeon. Those eight children are the fruits of what you have sown, but I will not allow the proof of Zeon Daikun's theory to wither on a vine of immorality and sophistry.  
  
"You have a satellite telecommunications dish on your roof." The Zeon colonel hauled the weeping older man to his feet. "Take me to your communications room. Lacerta, Reiter, watch these cattle. De la Somme, bring the children and come with me. The rest of you, behave yourselves and you may live long enough to enjoy being under the yoke of space. Move it."  
  
**Bonn, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe  
November 9, 0087**  
  
_That son of a bitch!_ cursed Garrett Sajer at his computer screen as the well-executed offense he had unleashed at Major Tizard's line spent itself on the Titan's superior's defense. Now his whole front was collapsing. He shook his head abruptly. No, this was just luck. Sajer's attention was diverted by the interview on the vidvision in the corner, his mood fluctuating between fascination and rage at the smug Zeon General.  
  
"'. . .after that thing was secured, I would then find a way to spread the message to the oppressor government and all its population at the same time. In England, the simplest way to accomplish that end would be to capture a facility that enabled telecommunications via satellite system. I believe the nearest facility for our fictional resistance force would be Coventry, which is a node for most of the islands and has a connection to the rest of the Federal system via the nexus point near London. Convenient that the Federation continues to make use of relay systems formerly belonging to the NATO organization to maintain their own communications grid. . .'"  
  
_That's because it's cheaper that way, imbecile Spacenoid._ He moved a rook to cover his last remaining bishop, wondering how he was going to get out of this one. Despite the fact that he had never won a game against Tizard, it never got easier to accept a defeat. Reaching over beside him, he poured more coffee into his black mug, pondering his next move.  
  
Down the hall, at emergency response, a phone began to ring.  
  
  
**Lammersdorf, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe  
November 9, 0087**  
  
With a shudder, the cargo doors on each of the three _Medea_ transports flew open, and the MS-14S _Command Gelgoog_ bearing Karl Weissdrake vomited from its storage space, beginning its fall towards the heavily wooded ground below. In a V-formation just behind him, the two identical MS-14Jg _Gelgoog Jaegers_ belonging to Royce and Bryce Foxe fell in perfect synchronicity, just like their pilots.   
  
Weissdrake glanced at his altimeter, waiting for the number in meters to reach 100. Flicking his eyes over to the main camera, he saw amidst the trees and hills below the massive camouflaged dishes and buildings that belonged to the Federal telecommunications nexus in Lammersdorf.  
  
Their purpose for being here.  
  
At 100 meters altitude, the titanic parachutes on each of the three _Gelgoogs_ burst from their containers, billowing out to slow the fall of the three 80-ton mobile suits. As their chutes reached full spread, the high-powered beam machineguns on the twins' _Gelgoog Jaegers_ opened fire, spraying energized carnage into the treeline and buildings below, taking pinpoint care not to get anywhere near the main control building or the dishes. The motor pool erupted in a cloud of smoke and flame, even as the barracks and housing sectors collapsed in on themselves, gutted by fires, as the pulsing beams of brilliant death traced their lethal paths through the tiny Federal base, scorching everything they touched. Vehicles vaporized instantaneously from the intensity of the Zeon energy weapons. No fire was returned from the ground.  
  
_Got them!! They're completely helpless!_ exulted Weissdrake. A perfect HALO drop after all for the 555th 'Triple-Nickel'. At 40 meters altitude, he depressed the button that blew the parachutes off his suit, and kicked on the powerful thrusters of his _Command Gelgoog_, setting down right beside the building with hardly a bump. The two _Gelgoog Jaegers_ also landed, at the same time, each of them with a beam machinegun angled into the sky, backs to one another.  
  
Weissdrake hopped out of his kneeling mobile suit, pistol in hand. He walked into the main control building as though he owned the place, and after only having to shoot three people, he got what he wanted.  
  
**Mannheim, Hessen, Central Europe  
November 9, 0087**  
  
". . .once the message had been broadcast informing the world of the lies their government had propagated, it could be said that the resistance would have an excellent hand with which to negotiate whatever it was they desired. It could only be done this way, as those seeking restitution would not be able to conduct a war in the normal sense. Thus, it becomes necessary to wage unconventional warfare, which in our study could not be immediately acted upon by the powers that be. Others would disagree, but that is how I would do it, of course."  
  
Fields blinked. "That was fascinating, General, though I doubt our viewers would accept it as being possible in this day and age. The Federation is far from as weak as you portrayed it in your scenario."  
  
"Really now?" smirked von Mellenthin. "Despite the setbacks in space, in Africa, in Southeast Asia? The loss of Jaburo? The necessity in negotiating the treaty with Axis? How strong is the Federation that cannot keep some holdover U-Con submarines from wreaking havoc across what should be secured sea-lanes and harbors? I don't think my idea is so farfetched, especially today."  
  
Fields cleared her throat and went on. "I understand that during the War, you commanded an autonomous division, one that was distinctly different from the rest of the Zeon armed forces. Why were you able to impress such conditions on the Zavis and the rest of the military?"  
  
Von Mellenthin awkwardly took a sip of water from a glass on the table beside him, cuffed hands very apparent to the audience. "Kishiria Zavi, of course. That and some heavy betting that I just happened to win."  
  
"But you were no more than twenty-three. Twenty-three year olds don't command divisions."  
  
"I never said it was easy. But between some skilled negotiations, some diplomatic measures, and some very good scores at the Academy, I was able to convince my superiors that I was capable of commanding that many troops, using my own methods. Oh, and I was helped by a violin."  
  
"A. . .violin?" Fields was confused. "Please explain."  
  
"Certainly. The hardest part of the entire thing was convincing Kishiria to promote me to _Oberst_, excuse me, _Colonel_, and relinquish command of the 10th Mobile Armored Brigade to me. I was a _Hauptmann_ at the time, which is a Captain to you all. To do this, I wagered that I could make her cry tears of joy and sorrow at the same time. She found my proposition amusing, so I unleashed then-_Oberleutnant _von Seydlitz on her with his violin. Ahhh, that it worked so well still warms my heart to this day."  
  
Fields checked her notes. "Reinhardt von Seydlitz?"  
  
"That's correct. He was an excellent violinist. He was also my brother, and a very good soldier. He commanded one of my battalions during the War." He paused for a moment, smile fading slightly as his mind took him back. "And at Metz."  
  
"Your brother?" Von Mellenthin's sparse file listed no siblings.  
  
"Yes, my foster brother. One of the conventions of the Bunch colony of New Koenigsberg is fostering. We hold to many different things than the rest of Side 3. By virtue of birth and lineage, he was fostered with my family after his parents died. Thus, he was my brother."  
  
"Your family life must have been very different than the rest of us."  
  
"Perhaps. I like to think my family is as normal as anyone in my position's should be."  
  
"You have very little family left anymore, General. Have you ever regretted that you never married before the War, or being in prison afterwards?" Fields could sense that concentrating on his family was the key to opening up doors in the heart of von Mellenthin. It was obvious that he desperately missed them, even if he was trying to cloak it under indifference.  
  
His next reaction, however, was most unexpected. Von Mellenthin stared at her, smile slowly fading away. "What do you mean by 'anymore', Ms. Fields?"  
  
"I mean," answered the FNN reporter, "with the death of your father three years ago, the placement of your mother in a ward for psychological therapy, and the death of your foster brother at Metz at the end of the War, you haven't a lot of relatives---" she stopped when she looked up again at his face, and she went pale.  
  
The expression on von Mellenthin's face was a myriad of emotions, but confusion was the most prevalent. Even as he stared at her, unblinking, confusion turned to anger, and he slowly turned his head to look at Grissom, who had gone white as the blood drained from his face. Again, slowly, he turned back to Fields, and while the muscles in his jaws writhed and his face was hot with a fury barely being kept in check, the entire demeanor of the interview had suddenly gone ice cold.  
  
Then he spoke: "I ask your apologies. I was not informed of the passing of my father, and am in something of shock. Please continue. There are ratings to consider, after all, and viewers are not here to see me grieve, though I think there are some out there who would indeed relish such a thing."  
  
**Heidelberg, Baden-Wuerttemberg, Central Europe  
November 9, 0087**  
  
"The patch is almost done, Colonel. Lammersdorf is coming on line now," spoke Weissdrake to von Seydlitz via the cell phone in von Seydlitz's hand.  
  
"Showtime in two, confirmed. See you at the Taunus, _Kommandant_." Von Seydlitz hung up the phone, then turned to the director, whose lip was swelling badly. "I trust everything is in readiness?"  
  
The man nodded, in obvious pain.  
  
"Good. You all may just live though this, provided you remain calm. We will be departing from this place shortly after my transmission is complete, and your lives will go on from there as the Weave wills it. Go back to your people and make certain they understand that."  
  
He glanced at de la Somme and the children, who were in the control room, visible through a window and an open doorway from the actual comm room where von Seydlitz stood. For all their gifts, they looked like any normal human, and the oldest of them, the blond one, had taken quite a liking to the Zeon ace. Von Seydlitz guessed that he was the one whom Antares had communicated with during his espionage visit here some weeks ago. A pity, really, to have been tailor made for a war they could not have envisioned. Still, at least this way they did not have to die.  
  
A red light began to flash on the side of the viewscreen before him, and the camera atop the monitor began to blink intermittently. Antares nodded at him and motioned for him to hurry up.   
  
As the older of the two stood in a white square drawn out on the floor of the comm room, de la Somme reached for a button and pressed it.  
  
**Earth Sphere, Sol System, Milky Way Galaxy  
November 9, 0087**  
  
As the human race continued to listen and/or watch the continuing interview with von Mellenthin, they were suddenly shocked into attention as a shrill beeeep overcame the sound of the interview, and the picture dissolved into static.  
  
  
In Mannheim, Ms. Fields lost her composure and called out "What the hell?" as everything suddenly went dead on the camera. Her crew began to busily trace the problem, trying to come back online.  
  
"There go the ratings," remarked von Mellenthin casually from his seat.  
  
"What's going on?" asked Fields, snapping at her people and throwing a glance at Grissom, who seemed equally confused.  
  
Her sound man threw his hands in the air. "It's the goddamn emergency broadcast system! Someone's triggered it and it's overriding the entire system! Even the radios are being flooded with a new signal! We can't even bypass it just within this building!"  
  
  
In Lyons, Major Tizard glanced over at his radio set, stood from the computer, and slammed a hand down upon it. When the trill did not cease, he shrugged and went back to his game to wait, but his head began to ache, forcing his concentration away from it.  
  
  
In Bonn, Colonel Lucas Edgrove's eyes flew open from his nap, and he almost fell from his desk chair. He had been listening intently to von Mellenthin and had dozed off. He cursed and was in the process of straightening himself when his office door burst open, and he lost his balance, falling to the ground in a heap.  
  
Several rooms away, a heavy brass paperweight flew across the room into the vidvision screen, destroying the device and ending the sound that made Garrett Sajer's teeth hurt and ears ring. "Son of a BITCH!!" he screamed, nostrils flaring in hate. He was going to have to pay for that vidvision from his own earnings, and the ringing in his ears was not stopping.  
  
  
On the Autobahn, the vehicle transporting Camael Balke and Peter Dorff suddenly increased speed to nearly 200 kph.  
  
  
And as soon as the strident squeal of the EBS started, it stopped, to be replaced with a high pitched tenor voice that came in loud and clear despite there still being nothing but static on the vidvision screens.  
  
"**_Greetings, Earthenoids. We have now taken over your radiooo~o._**" The voice trailed off into a laugh, and then a picture formed from the interference.  
  
The man who faced the viewers was young, perhaps thirty, with cold gray eyes and a face that seemed singularly incapable of a smile, much less a laugh. The man's raven-black hair, cut military short, gave him something of a sinister look, and the harsh lips on the angular face were held in a perpetual frown that was close to a scowl of contempt. It was evident that he was dressed in a uniform very similar to von Mellenthin's, and that it was definitely Zeon in design.  
  
"**_Citizens of the Earth Sphere,_**" began the new face, in a totally different voice than the one who had first spoken, "**_I am _Oberst_ Reinhardt von Seydlitz, commander of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ Division, Zeon Mobile Assault Corps, speaking to you from now-occupied Heidelberg in Central Europe. Rest assured that this is no hoax, and that I am serious in all my intentions. On behalf of the Archduchy of Zeon, I invite you all back to the War of Independence, and hereby render judgment upon the Earth Federation for its crimes against space and its own citizens._**  
  
"**_Make no mistake. I do not bluff. My people and I have waited eight years for the means by which to restore the balance of power and free space from the clutches of Terra. The results of reacting foolishly in the face of superior Zeon armored units now encamped here will echo throughout eternity, and the destruction will be unparalleled in the heralds of history. For those of you who still doubt our Will, remember that Europe is the most densely populated region on the planet, and then remember Metz. Heed my warnings not, and we shall scribe our epitaphs on the flesh of a billion souls with the blades of sharp revenge, and ink those words in the salt of your own hypocrisy. Remember that to us, be you Federation or AEUG, Kalaba or Titan, or even Axis, you are traitors or Earthenoids, which means you are all judged equally and together._**  
  
"**_For eight years, we have waited for this day, and we have not been idle. Thanks to some particularly unscrupulous Federation businesses, employees, and lax hireling soldiers, we now have the ability to set in motion a cataclysm that will dwarf even the annihiliation of Sydney during the Zeon War of Independence. Should we not be taken seriously, we will deliver into your very homes a biological weapon of nigh-unstoppable power called Nemesis. If this seems a falsehood, then dwell upon how simple is was for us to bring mobile suits onto the surface of Terra from space, all nicely packaged in a Lunarian ore freighter. Consider what else we have brought back from the darkness without end, the place where war is birthed._**  
  
"**_By the Word of the _Ordnung_ of New Koenigsberg, and by the Mandate set down by the Carolignan, Saxon, and Frankish-Salien Kings of the Holy Roman Empire, I do hereby declare that I am the appointed scion of the House of Hohenzollern, and by blood and iron I am the ruling Elector-Prince of Brandenberg-Preussen. By such power invested in me, I do also declare that the Federation has committed unlawful acts upon the citizens of Terra and space, and is now judged by the representative of a higher power._**  
  
"**_On the charges of illegal imprisonment and unlawful war crimes trials of Zeon military prisoners of war, both past and present, I find you guilty. My demand is the immediate release of Generalmajor Dietrich von Mellenthin and all other Zeon prisoners, upon their own recognizance. Failure to comply within one hour will result in the deaths of several million Federation citizens._**  
  
"**_On the charges of willful acts of war, oppression, theft, and extortion against the free peoples of space, I find you guilty. I demand the immediate removal of all Federation presence from space, including all Sides, colonies, and long-range outposts throughout the Sol system. I also demand the immediate mothballing and destruction of the entirety of the Federation military space forces. You are banished from the stars, and you shall never feel their light upon your face again except when Sol sets below the horizon. I also demand the immediate dissolution of the so-called Republic of Zeon and the reinstatement of the Archduchy as the executive and legislative body of Side 3, its bloodline to be chosen by the citizens of Side 3 in one lawful election._**  
  
"**_On the charges of mass murder, genocide, and willful and repeated violation of the Antarctic Treaty of 0079, the basis being the illegal gassing of 30 Bunch colony, Side 1, the attempted colony drop on Granada, the assault on Von Braun, the illegal development of nuclear arms on both the strategic and tactical level, and the assassinations of key former Zeon civil leaders in the colonies of Side 3, I find you guilty. In light of the severity of these crimes, I demand the immediate extermination of the terrorist organization known as the Titans and all who have ever worn their uniform. In the tradition of the Code of Conduct for soldiers set down by Emperor Frederick the Great, obedience of illegal and unconscionable orders is punishable by death. All Titans are guilty, and all shall perish. Considering the Federation's inability to enforce it, the Antarctic Treaty is hereby repudiated. That means anything goes, and we will use every means at our disposal to punish the oppressors of space, including the use of Nemesis._**  
  
"**_On the charges of illegal genetic tampering and experimentation in a nation that is a signatory of the Charter of the Federation under the grounds that such research would be limited to stem-cell findings only, I find you guilty. The evidence is here with me, scrolling across your screens in the form of data removed from the mainframe of the _RZPD Deutsches Resourcenzentrum fuer Genomforschung GmbH_ and all subsequent data on the eight natural NewTypes that they have created for the purpose of warfare and research. My demand is the immediate removal of all Federation armed forces, representatives, citizens, and employees from the Terran surface area between longitudes 5 degrees east and 30 degrees east, and latitudes 55 degrees north and 47 degrees north. By ruling decree, the Federation is hereby expelled from _Gross Deutschland_, and Germania forthwith secedes from the Charter of the Earth Federation. You have one hour to comply, or the armed forces of the Zeon state of Germania, being the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ Division, will sear the life from every Federation soul in _Deutschland_, without quarter or hesitation._**  
  
"**_These are non-negotiable terms. Obey them or be excruciated. You have one hour, or in the name of all who have fought, suffered, and perished to be free, I will sever the life of the Federation and all who call it friend, home, and nation from the fabric of the universe itself. God will have no mercy on your souls, and nor shall I. _Sieg_ Zeon._**"   
  
  



	11. Chapter 10

**MSG: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed **

**Chapter 10**

**Mannheim, Hessen, Central Europe**

**November 9, 0087**

The voice of Reinhardt von Seydlitz echoed throughout the building, giving it an almost godlike quality as it assailed the hearing of every living soul in the Penitentiary. Reactions were mixed, as shock is never the same for any two people.

Warden Grissom stood rock still, unable to do more than breathe as a ghost from the past proclaimed its spite to the entire living world. Everyone said that the vengeful judge of their fates who was speaking to the world was dead, and had been dead for years. If they were wrong about that, what else were they mistaken about?

Irina Fields shivered, realizing that not only was her interview now irrevocably overshadowed, but that they had just been speaking of this very devil, and he had come as though summoned. There stirred within her breast a sense of urgency, a need to flee, to escape this place, recoup, and return at full strength. It warred with pride and lost, and so she did not move, and only listened to the evil voice pronounce its terms to a world that never saw it coming.

The prisoners were divided between a sense of hostile confusion that bordered on annoyance at their fellow inmate being cut off in mid-interview, and an overwhelming adulation that bordered on a hope that spurred an immortal fanaticism. As a whole, they turned their eyes on the dozen guards, and they _hungered_.

The guards did not notice the change in the atmosphere immediately. Most did their duty of keeping watch on their charges, but not a one was totally focused on their assigned task. Too many words rang in their heads, words like _biological weapon_ and _guilty_ and _several million deaths_. And inherent within all of these was a simple instinctual fear, one that could only be summed up as a kin to 'fear of the unknown'.

Dietrich von Mellenthin threw back his head and _laughed_. "My _brother!!_" he cried out, voice punctuating von Seydlitz's words. "The eight years you've made me wait are forgiven!! This is _priceless!!_"

Fields was the one to recover first, and she turned eyes that brimmed with shock and loathing on her subject. "W-w-what d-did you s-say?"

Von Mellenthin wiped an eye with his sleeve and looked at her, his own eyes gleaming with mirth but his ears still listening to von Seydlitz speak. "I'm terribly sorry about your ratings, dear, but this really is delightful. I couldn't have timed this better had I been there myself."

She was confused. "Are-are you suggesting you _knew_?"

"Of course," he grinned. "It's _my_ plan. My seed planted eight years ago for this moment, now growing into a tree of woe to crucify hateful Terra upon."

Fields's mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out as her mind tried to work itself around von Mellenthin's words.

He turned his lips downward in a frown, but his eyes were still ebullient. "Surely you can appreciate the irony of this all. A man in a cage making an entire world tap dance to his own tune, using the dead as his vessel of revenge. This should come as no surprise to you, really. After all, the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ _was_ nicknamed the 'Ghosts'."

Still she was silent, even as a look of utter revulsion began to form on her face.

Von Mellenthin sighed, and then waved a hand in the air in exasperation (as much as he could with the chains, of course). "Typical. Do the best job you can to the limits of fallibility, and no one _grasps_ it. And even if they _do_, they don't _appreciate_ it at all. Earthenoids, I swear you're all dense as Jove."

He leaned forward, face growing larger in her eyes as he stared into them; his own a cheerful opposite to what hers exuded. "You're disappointed that my own little scheme has cast a pall over yours. I can smell the ambition on you, my dear, and it's an old odor to my nose. But I am still at your service, after all. I can help you now, as I promised Grissom I would help him. Would you like that?"

"H-how?" If her voice were capable, it would have been a hiss. Instead, it came out choked.

_How quaint._ "I know one way to give you what you want. Immortality in the eyes of the viewers, the all-important audience, the ones who tuned in to see you rake me over coals for their pleasure," he glanced down at her forgotten PDA and the list of pre-prepared questions, "which you were in a few minutes going to do, I see. They hear and see my brother right now, but he won't be on much longer, and the fickle crowd will want more. I can give them that for you. And you only have to do one thing."

"What?" She spoke the word like a thirsty man speaks 'water'.

Von Mellenthin's eyes never changed. "Die."

With von Seydlitz's voice still speaking, the Zeon General wrapped his manacled hands around Irina Fields's throat and crushed her larynx with his powerful fingers with no more effort than crushing an empty aluminum soda can. She was dead before the first guard's truncheon struck him between the shoulderblades, never even realizing what happened to her, but he did not release her until the third blow. Dazed, but conscious, he ceased struggling and let himself hit the floor and lie still.

A kick in the gut heralded the arrival of Grissom on the scene. "_Get this animal to the basement room! I've got some words for him! And get the fucking doctor up here, NOW!!_"

Von Seydlitz ended his speech as they dragged him away, but von Mellenthin's laughter went on and on inside.

**Heidelberg, Baden-Wuerttemberg, Central Europe**

**November 9, 0087 **

"Not bad," said de la Somme around the clapping, the eight children arrayed in a row behind him where they had stayed throughout the speech. "Coulda used some spitting, maybe a derogatory gesture or two."

Von Seydlitz gave him the finger almost casually, without looking at him, while dialing Weissdrake's phone number on his own cell with a practiced thumb. "Like that?"

"Awww," sniffed the shorter pilot, wiping away a fake tear, "it's so hard having to watch you grow up so _soon!_"

"Shut up and be ready to switch signals," he barked at de la Somme, making the children jump with its violence. The ringing phone on the other side picked up. "Are you prepared, _Kommandant_?"

"Affirmative, Colonel," replied Karl Weissdrake from Lammersdorf, where the buildings burned out of control and he had a gun in a Federal Corporal's mouth. "Switching to the closed-circuit to Bonn now."

"Good. The final phase begins now. You know what to do."

**Bonn, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe**

**November 9, 0087**

"All right, folks," spoke Colonel Lucas Edgrove with more confidence than he actually possessed at this juncture, "what are our options?"

The staff room in the Central European HQ in Bonn was full for the first time since Operation Stardust in 0083. The horseshoe-shaped table was packed tight with staff officers and adjutants from every branch of the Federation Armed Forces available. A few stragglers were still coming in, but Reinhardt von Seydlitz's face was still on the main monitor that took up the majority of the far wall, trapped in a still frame that had not budged in ten minutes. Those stuck in traffic or waiting for 'thopter transport to pick them up were on speakerphones strewn across the room, each manned by lower-ranked staffers as a stopgap for communication. The only conspicuous absence was Titans Captain Garrett Sajer, whom Edgrove knew was undoubtedly on the phone shrieking at Titans Major Tizard in Lyons before coming in here to give his own inevitable opinion.

"Options?" snorted one of his staff. "I guess we could spread our cheeks with both hands and beg the big pirate not to hurt us _too_ badly."

"And what the fuck is that supposed to mean, Frank?" spat another one across the table.

"Exactly what I said. We _have_ no options. This is something we've never even considered before."

"Why not? I thought Rapid Response was supposed to have _all _the bases covered."

The first staff officer, Frank, blew out a breath before slamming his hands on the table. "We _don't_ have any for dealing with the _dead_, dumbass! This is Europe, where all the Zeeks are _dead_, remember?"

"Enough!" snapped Edgrove, before his people started a fight in his own boardroom. "We need to act realistically here, people. The Zeeks caught us with our pants around our ankles and a come-hither look on our faces, but that doesn't mean we're helpless. Let's get a handle on what we're dealing with, okay?"

The collective silence in the room was palpable, until Sajer stormed in, slamming the heavy wooden door aside with a banging _thump_. He had a look of sheer disgust on his face, and Edgrove actually had to hide a smile. Sajer stomped over and threw himself into his seat, fuming.

Edgrove looked across the room and continued. "Let's assume that this . . .whatever he is has this Nemesis thing, and is ready to deploy it. What are our countermeasures like?"

'Frank', the representative for Rapid Response, shook his head. "Like a leaky sieve. We're completely helpless against a biowarfare weapon of the magnitude he's implying. It also depends on what vector he'll use to pass the weapon along. It could be a number of different things, air, water, and food like von Mellenthin said . . . shit, it could be contact-passed skin to skin for all we know. We've got nothing to work on, and even if we did, there's no telling _what_ the hell it is."

"Screw that," yelled Sajer over the din caused by the Rapid Response officer, "screw you, and screw this!! Would somebody please tell me who in the blue hell this prick on the vid even fucking _is_??"

There was a moment of silence before Edgrove spoke, softly and slowly. "A dead man. Or so we all thought. From the War."

Sajer blinked, his face twisted into something like a scowl. "And? So? He's a vet, big fucking deal. Why are you all shitting your pants over this?"

"You took Tactics and Procedure at Nijmegen, correct, Captain?" asked Edgrove, still staring at the top of the table.

"Yes!"

"Do you remember the name 'von Seydlitz' from the OpFor section of the text?"

Sajer was quiet for a moment, his anger-clouded mind trying to dredge the name out of his subconscious memory, along with a picture to match the one that stared at him from the screen, which flickered for a very brief instant. "Oh my God," he finally whispered, "_that's_ 'Black _Adler_' von Seydlitz."

"Correct, Captain. 'Black Eagle' Reinhardt von Seydlitz himself, alive and well and holding a gun to all our heads."

"But he's supposed to be _dead_!!" screeched the Titan, his eyes staring at the screen in a mixture of awe and loathing. "_They told us he WAS dead!!"_

"Gee, thanks for catching up. Now that we've enlightened our youth about our boogeyman, can we get on with this, please?" queried the female in charge of Signals, who had been living in misery since her waves had been so easily hijacked.

Sajer stood to his feet. "Get the goddamn historian in here! I want to know everything about this asshole," he spat, pointing a finger at the face on the screen, "and what he's capable of!"

"**_Everything, _Hauptmann**," spoke von Seydlitz's voice, as the face on the screen moved and its eyes fixed themselves to Sajer.

The entire room burst to its feet except for Sajer, who collapsed backwards into his chair, shocked speechless.

Von Seydlitz smiled. "**_I hope I am not interrupting anything private, but I thought that it would be a gesture of understanding that I speak with you all directly as opposed to airing all of your dirt over the open airwaves."_**

"_HOW_??" yelled Edgrove at the Signals rep, who simply buried her face in her hands and shook her head as he thrust a finger at the screen.

"**_Do not shout at her, _Oberst_ Edgrove, Commander-in-Chief, Federal Armed Forces Europe. My people and I have seized control of your communications nexus at Lammersdorf. That we have is beyond the scope of her control, or yours."_**

"What the hell do you _want_, Zeek?" asked Edgrove to the screen.

"**_What I demanded, of course, but mostly I want to see you all suffer under the heel of our revenge. Eight years we waited for this day, and we will wring you dry of despair before we are through. For the next forty minutes, at least."_** The gray eyes scanned over the room. "**_You should be packing. You have little time left to cross the Westerwald and avoid the calamity I have in Nemesis."_**

"What _is_ Nemesis? Some new weapon of mass destruction you've concocted? Gas and nukes and colonies not enough for you anymore?" called out one of the other officers.

"**_No, no, it does not require a new trick to butcher Earthenoids with. Instead, we have decided to use a blast from the past. Pre-historia, to be more specific. Have you ever heard of _Pfiesteria piscicida_?"_**

"No."

"**_I thought not. Allow me to educate you subhumans about it. It is a naturally occurring dinoflagellate lifeform that likes to feed on animal tissue for its sustenance. It has a particular liking for fish, and inhabits coastal seawater regions. It likes shallow sea bottoms, and when left undisturbed, it remains dormant. Its hunting method involves a corrosive neurotoxin that it releases into a victim's bloodstream, causing massive hemorrhagic lesions that eventually kill the victim, which the _Pfiesteria_ then begins to feed upon and multiply._**

**_"In humans, it causes respiratory, skin, and gastro-intestinal problems. It also causes memory loss and confusion, a low-key Alzheimer's disease effect, as it were, before it kills with agonizing and inexorable slowness. It particularly prefers blood. It is quite the vampire, our little _Pfiesteria_."_**

"You son of a bitch," spat 'Frank', his eyes burning with rage.

_**"You may be thinking to yourselves that because it is so limited in environment, Nemesis will not have the effect I claim it will. You could not be more stupidly mistaken. In an age of genetic research, it was simplicity to alter the makeup of this tiny dinoflagellate to a freshwater environment, and then make it . . .stronger. Over the last eight years, we have bred these things in abundance, and we have enough to infect every freshwater source and reservoir on the planet's surface. It will get into people's homes through the tap, through the sewage lines, and multiple other methods of transit, and then it will kill them, feasting on their blood, their very life essence itself. Just like the Federation has done to space, glutting itself on the blood of its betters for sustenance.**_

_**"And the best part about this is that you have no filtration system capable of coping with this organism and its corrosive effects, and no means of simply telling the world not to drink water. Even if you put a halt to every freshwater supply on the planet, the death toll will make the losses during the War of Independence seem like a normal obituary page on a news screen."**_

The silent horror the room was feeling was so palpable it could have been touched. Edgrove whispered, "How could you do this? You risk your own people as well."

Von Seydlitz smiled the grin of the unabashed predator, but did not show any teeth in the tightening of his lips. "**_No, quisling. In space, we recycle all our water, and do not import it from the planet's surface. Hence, we are under no threat, as every Side and colony will quarantine themselves from Terra the moment the news leaks that your water supply is lethally contaminated. Terra will be the leper of the Sol system, and none will touch your face even in sympathy. Not even the vaunted Federation Starfleet, were I to allow its existence, could help you against Nemesis. They could ship a thousand ice asteroids to Terra a day and still not proof the new water against the _Pfiesteria_. You will all be damned if you think that I am bluffing and prefer to call it rather than fold."_**

Edgrove cleared his throat around the sick lump that had formed. "It would seem you have us at a disadvantage, then."

_**"Precisely."**_

"How do you wish to proceed?"

**_"I have dispatched a vehicle to retrieve _Generalmajor_ von Mellenthin. Have him waiting in front of Mannheim Penitentiary for its arrival, unharmed. Once he and the rest of the Zeon military prisoners are released, your guards will be allowed to leave unmolested, to depart this land and never return. You and yours have thirty minutes to do the same. Once the hour is past and you have kept your end of the deal, I will have my people disarm the devices containing Nemesis, and the Federation may go about its business of removing itself from space wholesale. It may also go about the business of publicly executing every living Titan, and you may start with that one there."_** The finger on the screen pointed to the audience, whose eyes automatically went to Sajer, who had been fussing with a cellular phone a moment ago. The Titan's demeanor was more confident now, and Edgrove fleetingly wondered why.

"Eat shit, Zeek! If you and yours weren't such cowards, you'd fight us fair and square!" Sajer would have frothed at the mouth if he had known how.

"**_I seem to recall a similar challenge issued by one of us to one of yours at Metz. I hold your gauntlet in the same measure as your kind held Juergen Gyar's."_** The eyes turned to Edgrove. "**_You remember. You were there. I can see it in your face. It is as evident as the sun's rise. Beware the advice of that sniveling puppy in black and red, and of those around you who do not KNOW who I am and what I can do. Remember Metz, and KNOW that I do not lie."_**

Edgrove was trembling. "How many of there are you?"

The gray eyes did not blink, and there was no grin to cross the face of von Seydlitz. "**_Legion_**. **_I look forward to seeing you at the first Germania-Federation summit when we take control of Berlin and set up the new Zeon government. I suggest you bring a large bag of goodies to repay us for our mercy. Without it, I may choose to hold the murder of my father on the heads of not just the Titans, and the cost may just be a pile of the skulls of your firstborn children to decorate the New Year's bonfire with."_**

A phone buzzed, and someone to Edgrove's left answered, spoke a few words, and the man on whom the fate of all Europe depended sank into his chair, too weary to stand. "We will need time to comply, Colonel."

_**"No rush, really. I will call again before the hour, to ensure that you are doing your part to the fullest. We would not want there to be any mistakes in judgment, would we?"**_

And the image blinked out at last, leaving a black screen and silence in its wake.

"Our pooch is royally screwed now," muttered Edgrove, voicing the thought of everyone in the room.

Save one.

Sajer's smile was one of triumph. "So's his. It's been taken care of."

And all eyes turned to the Titan, with horror in their depths.

**Mannheim, Hessen, Central Europe**

**November 9, 0087**

Grissom flung himself into a chair across the desktop from von Mellenthin, rage fuming and nostrils flaring. "You promised me, Zeek. You _swore_ to me that you wouldn't fuck this up!"

Von Mellenthin glared back. "You weren't listening. I swore on the life of my father that I would behave."

"Keep your goddamn semantics out of---!"

"_And that was before I learned from that whore that he was DEAD!! So that promise had the same substance as my FATHER!! ASHES!!"_ Grissom could never have come close to rivaling the pure rancor in the voice of the Zeon General, and the warden's head recoiled from its violence.

"Listen," began Grissom again, calmer now that his own anger had quailed before the roar of the lion, "I'm sorry about your father's death, I truly am, but you just murdered a woman. I can't let that slide."

"And I cannot let the murder of my father 'slide'. YEARS, Warden Grissom. He's been dead for YEARS, and none of you bastards had the courage to tell me."

Grissom shrugged. "What good would it have done? You couldn't have attended the funeral. Besides, you've still got your foster brother, who is alive---"

"Do _not_ try to _placate_ me, pig! I _know_ that von Seydlitz is alive. I have known that for eight years. He's alive by my order."

For a long moment, they were both silent, as was the one guard in the room. Another was outside the door.

In the General Population above, something stirred, then came to life. The prisoners began to group together, moving towards the guards in packs. The guards did not fail to notice that.

"Hey, what the fuck do you skells think you're doing?" snapped one of the guards. "Get your asses back and disperse!"

"You killed the General's father," said one of the prisoners, flexing his wrists. "You're the ones who should be in the cages, not us."

The guard ratcheted a round into his submachine gun. "Yeah? Well, when you have the guns, you can fucking dictate. Until then---"

The three-round burst caught the speaking prisoner in the chest from a range of about seven feet. The man was thrown backwards into the arms of his comrades, prison greens browning with blood that spattered from the wounds.

"---_fuck off!_ Now the rest of you girls get the _fuck out of_---"

The roar went up as one single howl from every prisoner's throat, and they charged the guards in a rage.

The sound of machine gun fire, coupled with the caterwauling of the prisoners, was as evident to the Titans guards outside the complex as it was to everyone inside the building.

"What the shit is going on in there, sir?" asked one of the Corporals to the Sergeant who was in charge of their four-man platoon.

"It's a goddamn riot! McKlusky, get your GM up and running. Hancock, Tibbets, get those doors chained up. I'll start the compressors. You know the drill, people, move!" His handset buzzed, and he snatched it from its holder.

With a whine and a shudder, the RMS-179 GM II came to life beside the trucks. Three others just like it lay dormant, awaiting their absent pilots' commands patiently. The humanoid red-and-black mobile suit gripped its 90mm machine gun in its left hand and took hold of a hose with its right, even as the other two men finished chaining the door to the building and raced away from it.

The Sergeant was on the handset, talking to the caller, who happened to be his superior, Captain Sajer. "Yes, sir, we heard the whole thing. The prisoners have begun rioting inside."

"_Sergeant_," the voice of Sajer was faint, as though he were whispering, "_initiate Plan Whisper. Say again, Plan Whisper. Authenticate._"

"Sir, I---"

"_Authenticate, goddammit_!"

"Aye, sir, Plan Whisper. Authentication code is Cloudkill."

"_Terminate every living thing in the building. Especially that fucker von Mellenthin, understand_?"

"Aye, sir." The phone clicked off without another word, but he and his boys had their orders. "_Fire 'em up and hook 'em in, boys!! Smoke the whole lot of 'em!"_

Tibbets ran for his own GM, while the other man, Hancock, ran to the second tanker truck and flipped the red lever that activated the compressor, pumping the gas into the hoses that the GMs were hooking into the primary environmental control system for the Penitentiary, guaranteeing its spread throughout the building.

The sound of the pumps _thrummed_ through the building, but none of the rioters or the eight surviving guards heard them over the screams and the gunfire. The guards had managed to make a stand in front of the doors, and were pouring volley fire into the mass of prisoners, who just kept coming despite terrific losses. The problem was that there were more prisoners than bullets, and the guards knew it.

It was the smell that hit first, an odd odor of newly mown hay, tangible and growing stronger. One of the guards took the time to look up at the ventilation grille and screamed as a yellow gas began to pour from it in ever-increasing density.

"_GAS!!!"_ he shrieked, voice overriding even the prisoners, who stopped their advance under cover of tabletops and corpses to also look on in terror. Their riot forgotten, the panic became universal to both prisoner and guard as they realized what was happening.

Only the guards knew where the emergency masks were, and they were on the far side of the complex where the prisoners were. The cloud, denser than air, began to settle.

And men began to die.

Von Mellenthin sniffed the air, and something in his lungs hitched. "No," he cursed.

Grissom had not yet noticed, his mind too intent on the riot going on above them. "What?"

Von Mellenthin raised an eyebrow. "It seems your Titans have finally discovered what your lives are worth. What _all_ our lives are worth." And he pointed at the ventilation grille above him.

Grissom's eyes widened.

Above them, pandemonium ruled. The guards threw themselves at the metal doors, trying to escape the confines of the building and the lethal gas, which was dropping men like flies, choking and coughing. The chained doors would not budge, and the submachine guns were not enough to blow the door apart.

"Goddamn . . ._Titans_ . . ." rasped one of the guards in his last breath, lungs consumed by a fire that raged out of control, his throat sealing shut from the inflammation of the tissue.

It would have been a shock to all involved to discover that the use of this gas dated back to World War I, in 1915, and accounted for 80 of all chemical casualties of the war. It was called carbonyl chlorine, also known as phosgene.

With Grissom suitably distracted, von Mellenthin rose to his feet and smashed his clenched fists into the guard's face, driving the man's skull backwards and into the wall. His helmet took the brunt of the blow from behind, but his nose crumpled under the hammer force of the Zeon General's fists. Rearing back, von Mellenthin thrust his fists forward again, crushing the guard's windpipe before he could make a sound. Grissom surged to his feet, but the younger and far more athletic von Mellenthin kicked the desk, knocking the warden to the ground, still fumbling for his pistol. Von Mellenthin leapt over the desk and landed squarely on Grissom, one boot on the hand near the pistol and one on his neck, with his full weight and force directed downward. Grissom's arm broke across the radius and ulna, and three vertebrae splintered, then burst, and he was dead before ever getting a shot off.

Time was of the essence. Von Mellenthin remembered studying this chemical in Ancient Unconventional Warfare, and knew he only had about forty seconds to find a mask or an ammonia-soaked pad to avoid fatal lung damage. There was still one guard outside, and across the hall was an emergency firefighting kit, complete with anti-asphyxia mask. He hoped the filter was strong enough. He snatched the keys from Grissom's pocket and unlocked his manacles with a minimum of awkwardness and maximum speed, then threw open the door.

The outside guard did not turn around. "Hey, do you guys smell---?"

The density of gas in the hallway was not great yet, and von Mellenthin was thankful for that even as he grasped the guard's helmet with his freed hands and broke the man's neck with a twist. The guard slumped to the ground, and von Mellenthin shattered the glass on the firefighter's box with a boot heel, grabbing the mask pulling it over his face. He grabbed Grissom's pistol and the submachine gun from one of the dead guards, snagged the fire axe as a second thought, then walked into the cloud of yellow gas with the most freedom he'd had in eight years.

"Give the gas another couple of minutes, then take a gun, go in there, and empty a clip into von Mellenthin's face," ordered the Sergeant to Hancock. "They should all be dead by then, but the Captain wants us to make certain that fucker's a corpse."

"Yes, sir!" replied Hancock. The tankers were almost empty now, their lethal cargoes pumped into the building. The whole place would have to be burned now, along with everything inside it. But that was a job for later.

"Sir?" boomed Tibbets's voice from his GM's speaker. "I think you oughtta take a look at this."

"What is it, Corporal?"

"I've got an intermittent blip on the sensors, sir. Very long range, but closing very fast. I would've noticed earlier, but it's been zigging in and out of ground clutter. Range now less than ten klicks. Wait! Now I've got two of them! No! THREE!"

"Identify!"

"Unable to get a visual, they're jinking all over the---_Doms!!_"

The Sergeant was sprinting towards his GM when the first 880mm bazooka round caught the hose-wielding McKlusky's GM in the torso, turning the proud red-and-black mobile suit into a fireball and a rain of shrapnel. The hoses broke loose and fell to the ground, their remaining gas spewing in harmless amounts into the atmosphere, its density too low to do more than color some plants.

McKlusky's toppling suit collapsed backwards, its pilot reduced to charred proteins, and crashed to the earth, just as the first _Dom Tropen_ skidded into visual range.

"_Got him!!_ Our first catch of the war, Lieutenant!" exulted Master Sergeant Inaba Ogun, _Dom Tropen_ absorbing the recoil of the 880mm bazooka with ease.

"The Titans are gassing the prison," declared Lucian McKenna in his _Dom_. "I'll get the General. You two wax these fuckers fast and hard."

"You got it, sir," confirmed Kerr as his _Dom Tropen _went to full ground speed and drew its heat saber from the casing on its back.

Ogun's _Dom Tropen_ stowed the 880mm raketen bazooka that had felled the first GM from a respectable range of about a dozen kilometers, with obstacles, with one hand while he unlatched the MMP-80 with the other. The "panzer"-camouflaged Zeon suit cut loose with its 90mm autocannon, even as the first GM began to return fire with its own gun, using the Penitentiary as cover against the incoming rounds.

McKenna slowed his _Dom _to about 100 kph and came in low to avoid being taken out by random fire. The two remaining GMs didn't stand a chance.

"Cover me, Tibbets! I'm getting up now!" rasped the Sergeant as the Zeon suits began to close at their insane speeds. His GM began to rise to its feet, gun clutched in its hands, and he cursed it for being to slow to awaken. He watched through his elevating main camera as the Zeon walked a line of 90mm across Tibbets's GM's face, shattering the suit's main camera and sensors. He was enraged at getting caught with his pants down, and was wishing he had not ordered Hancock to go inside the building and finish off von Mellenthin.

Then his own death arrived, as the second _Dom Tropen_ literally _hurtled_ the entire height of the building, slammed a knee into the already-staggered GM that belonged to the unfortunately very green Tibbets, and drove ahead, heat saber swinging. The friction blade decapitated the Sergeant's GM as the suit slid past on its GES thruster system, made a 180-degree turn, and ran the GM through, blade sinking effortlessly into the cockpit and reducing the Sergeant to a perforated cinder. Kerr allowed his _Dom Tropen's_ foot to stomp the severed head of the GM into a powder of metal chips.

Tibbets's GM toppled over into the earth, even as the _Dom Tropen_ that hosed his suit's head followed its comrade over the building, and put a dozen rounds into Hancock's inert GM. Tibbets squeezed off another burst at the aggressor suits, but missed wide right. The _Dom Tropen_ never even moved its green mono-eye, but simply pointed its autocannon and emptied the rest of the clip into Tibbets's grounded GM. The mauled Titans suit twitched a few times, and then lay still.

McKenna's _Dom_ slid to a halt at the doors. "Ogun, put a round into that door there. Those pieces of shit chained them shut."

Ogun reloaded the MMP-80, and then complied with one pull of the trigger, the shell casing falling to the ground below.

Kerr poked at the GMs with his _Dom Tropen_'s heat saber, checking for signs of life. "Stinking Titans love their gas too much, Lieutenant."

"What do you expect of scum, Private? Nice hurdle back there, by the way. Worthy of a Marine." That was a praise few Marines ever gave to ones who were not Marines, but it had been an impressive move.

"Thank you, sir. Gotta think quick to keep up with Commander de la Somme, sir." Kerr hoped his own pride at the compliment wasn't beaming through the radio.

"I'll be back in a minute. I hope for all our sakes that the General's still alive in there, but I don't have a lot of hope." McKenna grabbed a gun, then popped the hatch on his _Dom_, feeling the burst of cold air wash through the cockpit. "Time to go hunting."

Inside, Hancock walked through the yellow-hazed building without care, pistol in hand, seeking the man in the Zeon uniform amidst the corpses. That the wretched and twisted pile of the dead before him, arrayed in prison greens and khaki Federal uniforms alike, had all used to be people did not faze him. They weren't Titans, so they were all inferiors anyway. Besides, there was nothing wrong with a load of dead prisoners. Less taxpayer money being dumped into a hole like this, anyway. He made his way up the stairs towards von Mellenthin's cell, expecting him to be there since there was no sign of him with the rest of the dead in Gen-Pop. The gas was lessening as it settled to the floor, and there were holes in the building from stray 90mm fire from outside.

Hancock was mistaken. Von Mellenthin was aware of the presence of the Titan, and also aware that something had just shown up and pissed in their Cheerios, and though he was not certain of the outcome of the battle, a tremendous amount of fire had been exchanged with the Titans GM platoon. His eyes, safely behind the mask that appeared to be working quite well, watched the Titan stalker begin to move up the stairs. Placing the submachine gun on the ground quietly (everything was so quiet now that he was actually concerned that his own heartbeat could be heard), he decided to do something really dumb but a lot quieter than simply capping off rounds and attracting the attention of any more of the black-clad assassin's friends. He took the fire axe in both hands and flung it at the back of the ascending Titans.

He realized as soon as it left his grip that he'd missed, and he ducked behind his table cover before the axe even _thunked_ into the wall ahead of the Titan, who whirled around. Seven shots rang out into the room, and von Mellenthin moved, feeling bullets whistle past him as he ran for the kitchen.

The Titan followed, realizing that his quarry was not only alive, but also very, very active. He glanced back at the fire axe embedded in the wall for a moment, and then gave chase.

McKenna paused at the doorway, watching yellow death seep out of the building. "Fuck! Too much gas! I can't get inside the building until it clears!" Then an idea struck him, and he ran for one of the tanker trucks.

Von Mellenthin squatted, submachine gun at the ready, underneath a steel countertop. The Titan was pretty good, but very confident. He probably wasn't alone, or he was so green he couldn't conceive of the possibility that he _was_ alone.

Securing his mask in place, McKenna advanced into the building itself, glancing to and fro as if expecting a trap. There were bodies everywhere, and all of them had died in agony. _I hope the universe pisses on the Titans from a great height._

He did not want to be the one to see the General looking like that, fingers distended into claws that had torn at throats as their owners tried to breathe the unbreatheable, blood and worse oozing from nose, mouth, eyes; not when von Mellenthin was alive less than an hour ago.

Further proceedings into the building also turned up nothing but corpses . . .and an axe buried in a wall near some 9mm shell casings. McKenna's eyes narrowed, and he called out with his best Marine voice, enough to penetrate the mask and echo throughout the silent halls.

"**GENERAL!!!!**"

"_General . . ."_echoed the voice to von Mellenthin's ears, and he _knew_. Crawling even as the Titan turned at the sound of the voice, pistol in hand, he made his way on elbows and knees to the piano, _his_ piano, the only comfort he'd known in the eight years of this place. Reaching up with a hand from below the keys, he stretched his fingers and tapped out the opening bars to Mahler's 6th Symphony, 'Tragical'. Just the first seven notes.

McKenna heard the sound of the piano, and headed that way, a spark of hope kindling.

The Titan whirled around again at the sound of the piano, squeezing off a round at the baby grand that thudded into the elevated top. Von Mellenthin took careful aim and opened fire with the subgun, putting eight rounds into the Titan's knees. His scream was audible even with the mask, and the black-clad man dropped to the floor, his blood puddling on the clean kitchen floor.

McKenna burst in at the sound of the machine gun fire, to see the Titan drop shrieking, and he leapt to the top of a table and put two rounds into the man's head with his pistol. Ears perked, he listened for the sound, any sound, of another living person in this room. His eyes glanced at the piano, and then widened as the uniform of a Zeon General appeared before him, submachine gun in the air.

"If you're going to shoot me, _Leutnant_, at least get your feet off the table first," spoke the baritone that everyone had known so well before the end of the War.

"Giren's balls, it's a pleasure to see you, sir," McKenna said around a grin, saluting.

Dietrich von Mellenthin reached out a hand and helped McKenna off the table, squeezing the gloved hand for a moment in thanks. "I trust you brought the limo?"

"Three of them, sir. Had some trouble with the valets, though." McKenna went grim. "No one else survived here, sir. It's pretty bad."

"I know," replied von Mellenthin. With a look of hatred in his eyes, he drove the stock of the submachine gun into the dead Titan's face, splitting the skull open with its force.

"_That's_ for killing my _men_, genebait!" He threw the subgun away contemptuously. "Let's get to Heidelberg, _Leutnant_."

"Negative, sir. We're on our way to the Taunus mountains, to rendezvous with Commander Weissdrake and Colonel von Seydlitz there."

"Just like Reinhardt to plan the itinerary without me. Very well, then, to Taunus _Gebirge_ we go!"

To von Mellenthin, the sight of the three _Doms_ was truly a thing of beauty, as much as breathing the cold outside air was a relief to his lungs when he threw the mask away. "I think I'll ride in the hand, _Leutnant_. I've been cooped up for a while."

"You got it, sir. I'll make the ride nice and smooth."

The sun was setting in the west, and no stars were visible, but von Mellenthin knew what freedom was, even as he brushed away the yellow powder from his uniform. The wind whipping around him would take care of the rest. He returned the salutes that the other two _Doms_ gave him, and then clambered into the cupped left hand of McKenna's _Dom._

"McKenna, tell Ogun and Kerr to put this place to the torch. Destroy the building and everything in it."

Ten 880mm rounds later, the Mannheim Military Penitentiary, and all its history, was reduced to a pile of burning rubble. This war it did not survive, and von Mellenthin viewed its destruction as a severing of himself from it. There would be no more cages for him, or for anyone else, in this place.

"Forward, to the future!" he yelled, and the three Zeon suits began their journey north. "A future _we_ will decide, and limited only by the bounds of our _imaginations_!!"

**Lammersdorf, Rheinland-Pfalz, Central Europe**

**November 9, 0087**

"The package has been retrieved intact, _Kommandant_. Connect the call once again," spoke von Seydlitz's voice.

"Understood. Transmitting now." The still-hostage Federation soldier dutifully pressed the red closed-circuit link between Heidelberg and Bonn, relieved when the sour barrel of Weissdrake's pistol was removed from her mouth.

"You and your people have done well, princess," spoke the badly scarred man in the Zeon uniform who killed without remorse. "I told you that you and yours would live a little longer with cooperation, and I did not lie. Stay here with the connection open for ten minutes, and you will all be freed. Do not venture outside until then, or you forfeit your safety. Is that clear, _Untermensch_?"

As a collective, the five survivors of the Lammersdorf on-duty Signals platoon nodded plaintively. Weissdrake nodded in return and walked out of the building. The fires in the other structures were dying down, except for the motor pool. He nodded at the Foxe twins' _Gelgoog Jaegers_ as he climbed into his own _Command Gelgoog_, relieved that the rescue went according to plan.

"We're done here. Waste the rest of this place, then let's go."

In unison, the twin beam machineguns raked incandescent fire across the telecommunications dishes and the master control building. What did not slag under the energy of their fire simply burned under the intensity of the beams. A few bursts were all it took, and Lammersdorf ceased to exist as an installation.

"Maximum ground speed, kids. We have an appointment to make, and only three hours to make it in."

Running at their top speeds, the _Gelgoog Jaegers _were faster than his own _Command Gelgoog_, but 180 kph wasn't shabby. Hurtling through the forests and hills of the North Rhine-Palatinate, they made for an easterly direction, avoiding centers of population when possible.

**Bonn, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe**

**November 9, 0087**

It had been ten minutes since von Seydlitz had spoken to them, but no move had been made to leave. Not since Sajer had boldly and proudly announced that he had just exercised one of the powers of his office and had von Mellenthin killed. Now, Lucas Edgrove waited for the repercussions that were sure to happen, wondering which city would die first as Nemesis was brought to bear. There were many possibilities, and most were betting it would be right here in Bonn. As it was, there were a lot of soda cans littering the surface of the great table now, instead of water pitchers and glasses.

_I can't believe he did that. What an absolute idiot._ Sajer still perched in his chair, eyes sharp and head held high. He was practically smirking, thinking that the death of von Mellenthin would convince von Seydlitz that the Titans did not fear him or Nemesis, and that the man would surrender. For once, Edgrove wished his Titans adjutant was a combat veteran, just to even hope to explain to this hothead that their possession of von Mellenthin was the only thing holding von Seydlitz back. If the 'Hessian Lion' were indeed dead, then the 'Black Eagle' would massacre the world in his rage. Surrender was not an option to be contemplated now, any more than it was contemplated at Metz.

Behind his eyes, Sajer was becoming concerned. One of the components of Plan Whisper was a callback once the deed was done. Mannheim had been silent for some time now, and this worried him. He would never allow it to show to these lessers, but he began to wonder if things went as well as they were supposed to. That he would catch heat for the slaughter of the entire prison complex, including the administration and the civilians, did not bother him. There had been a riot going on at the time, after all. The destruction of the building would erase the rest of the traces. He was so wrapped up in his thought that he did not hear Edgrove calling his name the first time.

"_Captain Sajer!"_ snapped across his hearing, and he looked at Edgrove with contempt.

"Yes, Colonel? What do you want?"

Edgrove drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"There've been reports of three _Dom_-type mobile suits in the vicinity of Mannheim. That matches the report we got from Heidelberg that three _Dom_-types left their other suits at high speed, due north. Better call your people and find out who won."

Sajer blinked, then reached for his phone. Edgrove turned to the others in the room. "That makes nine confirmed suits, people, plus whatever they used in Lammersdorf. He's got close to company strength to play with, on top of his bioweapon."

"He can't have more than a dozen suits," snarled Sajer, "it's just not possible."

"My question is: how'd he get nine suits in the first place, especially suits that are better than what the 10th had during the War? Where'd he dig them up from?" queried Frank, the Rapid Response officer.

"We're checking on that with Anaheim and others now. Could he have gotten them from Axis?"

"I doubt it," said Edgrove, "they don't seem to be on speaking terms with their Spacenoid brethren. Remember the speech, he said that Axis would be judged, too. For treason."

"Could be a bluff."

"This whole thing could be a bluff, but we can't take that---"

The vidscreen flared to life again before Edgrove could finish, and the cold gray eyes turned themselves upon them again. **_"Interesting. You have disabled the interior video cameras so that I cannot see you all. No matter. I thought I would take great pleasure in informing you that your Titans assassins have failed you. Our _General_ lives, and is presently en route to me here. We had to break a few things, mostly Titans, to retrieve him, but he is unharmed, and so are my people._**"

Sajer threw the phone across the room angrily. "You son of a bitch! You _murdered_ my people!!"

**_"Who were in the process of murdering the entire prison, including the Federation guards and the civilian news people. Titans are tough guys when they are hiding behind tanker trucks of phosgene gas and their foes are chained inside an abattoir, but they have no spine whatsoever on the field of battle. Three _Doms _took down four GMs easily enough, and never got touched. Why the AEUG has such problems with you greenhorns I will never know._**"

"This has gone far enough, Colonel von Seydlitz," spoke Edgrove, finding a voice around the fear that a freed von Mellenthin generated in him. "Surely we can come to an---"

"**_Understanding? Not likely. I was going to be content in letting you and yours leave the Zeon state of Germania alive, but it seems you would rather put up a fight. Well, we would love to accommodate your last military campaign, but we have an appointment in Berlin and a government to run, not to mention eight NewTypes to raise."_**

"Don't you dare!!" begged Edgrove. "Not them! Please!"

"**_Oh?"_** Von Seydlitz tilted his head to the side. "**_They are that important to you? Why?"_**

Edgrove was silent, and the Zeon Colonel's harsh eyes began to twinkle in amusement.

"**_I see. You need them to kill Titans with._**"

"HUH??" spat Sajer, glaring at the screen.

"**_Very slick, breeding natural NewTypes to fight the devil you created. Give them a dozen years or so, then use them to put down the Titans and restore power to the Federation. Who among you realized that you had given away all your bullets in the course of the negotiation? You, Colonel? One of your old Generals? Preparing for the long-term campaign, were we?"_**

Edgrove's fists were clenched tight, and tears shimmered in his eyes. "God _damn_ you, von Seydlitz!!" _Our only hope . . .taken by our worst nightmare . . ._

**_"It is for the best this way, Colonel. You would have no conception of the proper care of a genetically superior being. Best leave such things to your betters, like myself. We will take excellent care of them, and Zeon will be stronger for it. If you and yours want to rid yourselves of Titans, you can always do what we had to do and start a war. Yes, a nice civil war to decide who will rule and who will die. It would be quite the revelation, would it not? Still, if you want to lose more of your men and mobile suits trying to stop the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ and reclaim your 'property', tell your weaklings and cowards to meet us in the place where one empire ended and another began. As a sign of my magnanimosity, and as a bone to throw you after the dismal defeat of a Titans platoon to three older yet far superior mobile suit designs, I pledge to withhold Nemesis from the waters until after we reach Berlin. If you have not done as I have tasked you by that time, the world will die. Now if you will excuse me, I have a welcome to attend to. Fare poorly, and may your path be sown with thorns and stones._**"

Von Seydlitz's face moved out of the range of the screen, and another face appeared. This one was so different from von Seydlitz, it was a study in contrasts. His rank tabs bore the pips for a Commander.

"**_Oh, yeah, and one more thing, assholes: watch your step to Hell, cause it's a loooooooong fall!! Toodle-oo!!"_** And the screen went black.

Sajer turned and faced all of them with a look of utter disgust on his face. "You fucking backstabbing _traitors!!_ Why didn't you tell---?"

"NOT NOW!!" yelled Edgrove over the Titan's diatribe. "This is a fight we'll have later."

Sajer nodded rapidly, like a jackal. "You're damn right we will, _Colonel," _he spat the rank like a curse. "Right now, I'm calling Major Tizard and telling him to get the 54th mobilized! We'll see if that shitball and his nine suits have the guts to take on a _brigade_ of Titans this time!"

"No, you won't."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm exercising my authority as Commander-in-Chief of Europe and superceding the Titans in this matter."

Sajer actually _hissed_, making him appear all the more reptilian. "Which regulation is it this time, Edgrove?"

"None. I'm just tired of listening to you babble. You fucked up, we'll fix it." He looked at the Signals officer. "Get me Kassel on the line. I'll speak with Captain Cramer myself. And get the historian in here after all. We're about to have a conference call."

**Heidelberg, Baden-Wuerttemberg, Central Europe**

**November 9, 0087**

"Pack up your children, _Kommandant_. It is time we left this place."

The younger Zeon held out a hand to Erik, who took it without hesitation. "Let's go, gang. We're going on a field trip."

"To where?" asked one of the others as they followed von Seydlitz down the hallway in a line.

"The mountains. We're going to meet our boss, and then we're going to---"

Von Seydlitz ground to a halt, then slowly turned around and marched two steps back, grabbing Erik's face in a gray-gloved hand with an inordinate amount of violence.

"H-hey, Reinhardt, what the hell?" stammered de la Somme, shocked.

"Do you _like_ being inside people's heads, child?" asked von Seydlitz to the small face gripped with bruising force in his fingers. "Do you _enjoy_ playing in people's heads?"

A whimper managed to escape the pinched-in lips.

"Let me show you what is in MY head, child, and learn _this_ lesson well!" And von Seydlitz concentrated on _hate_. It flowed from him like a wave of empathic poison, into the wide-open mind of an eight year-old boy, who tried to scream and could not around the relentless grasp of the fingers. Von Seydlitz showed the child the War, Metz, and the endless hate he had for Terra, for the Federation, and for everyone who had cost them the War. Nothing but pure _hate_.

After the child began to sob chokingly, von Seydlitz released him, and the boy fell backwards into de la Somme's arms.

"Stay OUT of MY head, NewType! We are not so different, you and I, in that I know all the ways to hurt _you_ as I know the ways to hurt _myself_. Remember this!"

With a steel glare at de la Somme, who looked like he was about to cry himself, von Seydlitz stalked on down the hall. "I am not here to be a fucking nice person, Antares. Get used to that, if you have not by now! _Lacerta!_ Has the data been cleansed from the system?"

"Yes, sir. It's all gone. We've wiped the slate clean."

"Excellent," he turned to the captives and spread his arms wide. "Thank you all for the choice hospitality. We will be leaving you now, and taking your wards with us for proper education. They will be treated as well as they deserve, no more, no less. Take my advice, scientists: if you want to practice genetic research, go to Side 3. In the meantime, get out of town and do not return to Germania. We are the new management, and you are all just Earthers to us. _Get out!!_"

They did not have to be told twice. Helping the wounded director, they herded outside the building and ran into the winter air, not looking back.

"Lock this place up as we leave. It is history. Load the children into the truck's cargo pod, Kommandant." He pulled out his handset and spoke on the unit 'push'. "Get the suits moving towards the Taunus. _Kapitaen_ Roberts, you have point, but do not leave us behind, especially slothful _Gefreiter _Haskell in that _Zaku Cannon_. _Kommandant_ Margul, your people occupy flanks at three- and nine-o'clock, as well as our six to cover us. Seventy klicks, maximum ground speed. Space the suits in a circle with three kilometers between each one. The truck runs in the center, along with the _Zaku Cannon_. We have not as far to go as the others, so we need not rush. Blast anything Feddie that comes near us. Let us be away from this place."

With a lurch and a rumble, the truck began moving, and its armored guardians moved with it like bull elephants protecting the herd. In fact, that was very close to what they were doing. With but a whisper compared to the raucous entry they made when arriving, the Zeon left Heidelberg and ventured northward.

**Bonn, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe**

**November 9, 0087 **

Garrett Sajer did not need to return to the confines of his office to dwell on the ramifications of Plan Whisper's failure, but he did anyway, if just to remove himself from the presence of Edgrove. When the Federation Colonel had declared that the Titans were out of the loop in tracking down the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_, he had ground his teeth together so hard it was a miracle that something did not crack. As it was, he had a sore jaw now, and that did not enhance his mood any.

One of the worst things about being in Bonn was his lack of mobile suit access. He had considered rounding up whoever was willing and giving chase himself, but his _Barzam_ was in Lyons, along with the rest of the Titans. These Federal sheep would rather sit and relent to von Seydlitz's demands than risk their own necks hunting down nine old Zeon mobile suits. They would be too busy shitting themselves in fear of Nemesis.

Sajer knew that von Seydlitz had fucked up. The Zeon Colonel had alluded to an activation code that controlled the devices that would release Nemesis into the water supply. That means he had to be alive to use that code. To Sajer, "removing the man with the code" translated to "threat no longer relevant". It would be so easy.

Still, it was a gutsy move on Edgrove's part to commit the only viable combat force the Federation possessed in Germany: the 103rd Mobile Infantry Company based in Kassel. Most of them were green recruits, but their commander was Captain Herschel Invictus Cramer, who'd fought in Africa during the War. Sajer knew him by reputation. He was a prissy bastard, but a capable one. And a Federation MI company was numerically superior to a Zeon one. Nine suits would wither quickly in the firepower of twenty assorted Federation armored assets.

What annoyed Sajer the most was that the best chance to see combat to ever step on European soil was going to be claimed by Federal Forces and not Titans, especially himself. Killing a pair of Zeon aces and a group of malcontent veterans would be quite the feather in the cap of the 54th TTAB, especially in the eyes of the other Titans. Enough that the heads of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ would perhaps convince the Titans hierarchy that they were wrong about Captain Garrett Sajer, and assign him to space combat duty.

For the first time in his life, he began to pray that the Spacenoids won against the 103rd MI. Then, he would get his chance.

He mashed the speed dial button on the phone for Lyons, then waited to hear it pick up. "Major? This is Sajer. Edgrove's committing the 103rd, sir. We're not going to be allowed into this one."

"It doesn't matter, Captain."

"Sir?"

"Cramer will lose. He's a pro, but not the kind needed for this mission. Von Seydlitz is out of Cramer's league, and not in the good way. Even if they succeed in a Hail Mary, the 103rd will no longer be an effective combat force when it's done."

"How can you tell?"

"Study history. Von Seydlitz has, and he's had eight years to think this move up. Cramer will go in thinking his numbers will pull him through, and he'll get nothing but mauled in the process. Any fool can see it."

Sajer did not mention that he, himself, did not. "Orders, sir?"

"Stay close to Edgrove. When Cramer's people bite it, be there to say 'I told you so'. We'll get our chance, Garrett, don't fear about that. I've already begun preparing the logistics needed for the operation."

Sajer swallowed nervously. "Um, sir? I feel the need to report that during von Seydlitz's second contact with us, I initiated Plan Whisper. I must report that it failed, with the loss of all four of our people."

There was a long pause on the other end. Then, "Very well. Now Cramer's goose is really cooked."

"How so, sir?"

"Von Seydlitz just got his boss back, which just increased the threat of those nine suits by a factor of ten. Von Mellenthin's calling the shots, and he's the best Terrestrial armored operations strategist the Zeeks had in the War. He's the brain behind von Seydlitz's claws. Be ready, Captain. We will have a fight coming, and I expect to win it, 'Hessian Lion' or no."

"Understood, Major. See you on the field."

Tizard hung up, and Sajer, ever the hater of reading and research, began rummaging around in the database for reference material on Major General Dietrich von Mellenthin and the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ Division.


	12. Chapter 11

**Near Hattersheim, Hessen, Central Europe **

**November 9, 0087 **

Wide. The world was so _wide_ here. Endless expanses of it, as far as the eye could see. Awesome in its beauty, terrifying in its scope. Everything was so real, so new, that it was like a dream given solid form. It even had its own smell; composed of a thousand other smells granted, but still a very particular smell. For lack of a better name, he called it _freedom_, and he reveled in every inhalation of it.

Even the cold could not touch Dietrich von Mellenthin at this moment, as he stood like a triumphant god in the wide palm of McKenna's speeding _Dom_, snow lashing him across the face and spattering across the goggles on his numbing face, wind whipping about him, forcing him to steady himself with a hand on the huge index finger of the mobile suit. It was a sensation he had not felt in a long time, the numbness of cold, not since the War. New Koenigsberg never enabled its weather pattern for snow, and it had been a shock to see it here that first time. That time, its curious majesty had been overshadowed by the fact that they had been in retreat, which was a taste in which to sour the finest wine on the palate. Not so with this snowfall. This one was different. This one held the promise of glory.

The other two suits were ahead and on the flanks, weaponry in hand and on call. The ice was kept at bay by the heat of their reactors and the huge GES thrusters that enabled them to skim on their cushions of air. Von Mellenthin admitted that he was indeed behind the times in the world of modern armored warfare and its weapons. The _Dom_ had seemed a fantasy to them on the European front, where logistics had been scarce and equipment upgrades scarcer yet. There would be quite a catching-up session once the staging area at the Taunus Mountains was reached. He would make Reinhardt bring him up to speed, since the Colonel had probably memorized the capabilities of the new suits already. That was his way, after all, and it saved von Mellenthin the necessity of doing so himself, even though he was more than capable of the task.

Glancing around, his eyes on the white vista that was slowly sinking to gray as the sun set, he viewed his domain. _His_ domain. Hessen. Hessia. So much history contained in this land, _his _history. Every snow-capped rooftop, every sentinel evergreen tree, every road and stream and soul. His blood hummed with the ambience of this place, and he wanted to purr and curl up and sleep, knowing that the only walls that contained him now were the ones he chose to place around himself. He was thankful his ancestors had finally returned to Germania after their exile in South Africa, but not to their old lands of Silesia, but to here. Now this was his to do with as he desired, his inheritance. The old Grand Duchy of Hessen-Nassau, established by Philip, the Landgrave of Hessen who had brought this area under his sway during the Lutheran Schmalkaldic War of the 1540s, whose power now rested on the person of one man, born to Space and bred to War, destined to lay the oppressors low and unite all Terra under the sway of blood and iron, to prove once and for all the righteousness of the _Ordnung_ and the divine rule of the Emperors, sealed under the power of Zeon forever.

No pressure.

Ahead of them, the darkening masses that signaled the foothills of Taunus. It was a low range, but one heavily shrouded with forests, where the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ was lord and master. Mountains and forests, ever their shield and home. It would shelter them from Federation eyes as well now as it did during the War, though this forest was new to their touch. It would serve. A good thing that after the pollution of the 20th Century, the Greens had managed to wheedle their legislation through, and after a couple of centuries without acid rain, the forests that were a facet of German life still stood proudly, to grant the loyal sons of this piece of earth rest in their shade, and keep their enemies at bay.

But as nice as it would be to maintain a fairy tale that hiding in the woods would make them immune to the oppressors, von Mellenthin was too much the military realist to buy that line. Their foe cared nothing for this land or its people, and would burn every tree to cinders to destroy them. Even now, he was certain they were mobilizing, even with the threat of Nemesis hanging over them. They had no choice. The gauntlet had been thrown, and to simply let it lie would mean that the Federation admitted that it was too weak to deal with the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_. There would be battle, and carnage, and death again. There would also be victory, redemption, and vindication at last. It would feel as good as it did to be free again, of that he was sure.

He would not have wanted it any other way.

**Near Darmstadt, Hessen, Central Europe**

**November 9, 0087**

The convoy ran on running lights now, the setting sun finally having prematurely dipped below the western horizon, where its light would not penetrate the triple-layered obstacles of the Hunsbrueck, the Westerwald, and the Eifel ranges. Despite the lateness of the hour, the news helicopters flew, their eyes spying as best they could on the northward-bound collection of Zeon mobile suits and their heavy-lift truck in the center of the herd. The news people, avid for anything after the murder of one of their own at the hands of the man who would command this rebellion against the Federation, were wisely avoiding straying too close after a particularly daring one of their number went in for a close-up in the rapidly dimming light and discovered that the _Zaku Cannon_ was rigged for flak. The wreckage of that helicopter had finally stopped burning somewhere back around Lorsch, but still they circled as long as they could before the lack of light and fuel forced them to withdraw, one at a time. What had been a dozen of them were down to a meager four, and none of them had the fortitude to test that _Zaku Cannon's_ patience by illuminating them with spotlights.

If he'd had his way, the remaining four would have been swatted down as well, but Reinhardt von Seydlitz was a pragmatist. Press goons bred like fleas in the midst of a crisis, and this was no different. They would vanish of their own accord, when that time was nigh.

While dwelling on nigh times, he glanced over at de la Somme, who had managed to drive for the better part of an hour without making a sound. Von Seydlitz knew what that was. De la Somme was fuming mad, and the silent treatment was one of the methods by which he conveyed anger. It also signaled that he was enraged beyond belief, since just a simple mad would have been voiced almost immediately. For almost an hour, von Seydlitz had let the younger man stew, as he always had when they were just boys. It was against de la Somme's nature to hold onto anger for too long, else it made him ill at heart and then he was miserable. As a failsafe, he would get un-angry slowly, until he was capable of rational discussion, but the process took time.

Von Seydlitz could remember once, when von Mellenthin and de la Somme had gotten into a heated debate about whether or not the Federation or the Klingons had developed transporter technology first, when de la Somme had gotten into one of these fits of his and been prompted out of it too soon. He almost smiled as he recalled the event in detail. Von Mellenthin had been twelve, de la Somme all of seven years of age. In what at the time had seemed an amazing display of ignorance on the part of von Mellenthin (at least to von Seydlitz, who had seen his older foster brother judge the character of others to a tee who were far older than he), he had pressed and pressed his ludicrously-wrong point until de la Somme had shut up, then kept right on pressing, until the much-younger de la Somme (who was the _Star Trek_ junkie of their group), had finally flown into a rather impressive shrieking frenzy, complete with thrown projectiles, screaming, and violence that went from point to point in the room, and did include his brother in his hurricane of destruction. It had turned out that he hadn't really cared about the argument at all, and he was upset about something completely different, and was venting it in one titanic burst of emotion.

After twenty entire minutes of this tantrum, and several dozen ruined objects of worth, the steam had finally been let out of their younger foster brother, who promptly collapsed in a heap on the floor, too wiped out to even stand. Antares had eventually 'gotten over it', just as he would eventually get over this. That was inevitable. Von Seydlitz mused at the irony of the fact that the little boy who had devastated a room of their house over his older brothers leaving him had, as an adult, handled the eight years without von Mellenthin's presence far better than he himself had.

Nonetheless, the silence in the cab was becoming uncomfortable, even to him. A quiet de la Somme was an unnatural de la Somme.

"You have my permission to speak, Kommandant," he spoke into the stillness.

"I'm so pissed at you I could chew my lips off," spat de la Somme after a moment.

"I would not recommend doing that. How would you blow kisses at Margul without your lips?"

The younger pilot snorted. "At least without 'em I wouldn't have to kiss your ass, _sir_."

Von Seydlitz's eyes slid sideways to look at de la Somme, who was pointedly looking straight ahead at the road. "Very well, then. It is just the two of us in this vehicle. Speak freely, like if we were at home."

The floodgate opened. "They're just _kids_, Reinhardt! Orphaned kids, like I was, you know, _before_! You're treating them like they're some kind of _property_, and that's just not cool! You never treated me like I was property, so why's this any different, huh? If you feel the urge to act superior, do me a favor and scare the hell outta me instead of them, okay? Even better, go terrorize someone who fucking deserves it, like that killer Margul, who shoulda been executed back at the War! Leave the kids alone, Reinhardt, _please_! It's not their fault that they're NewTypes, or whatever the hell they are, and it's not their fault that there's a war, and it's not their fault that the Feddies are assholes, and it's not their fault that Deet got thrown in the slam for eight years! Take it out on something else, for God's sake! Get a stress ball or a dog to chase or laid or _something_, but so help me if you ever touch one of those kids back there like that again, I will _bitchslap_ you---"

Von Seydlitz tilted his head to look squarely at de la Somme, put his left fist inside his right hand, and then cracked his knuckles loudly. Mobile suits were one thing, but hand-to-hand was a whole different universe, with a different hill that von Seydlitz stood on top of.

"---Okay, maybe I won't, but something bad will happen to you if you do that again, because God'll see to it. Please just remember that they're kids, okay? You were a kid once, too, you know." With that, de la Somme fell silent, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat as the pent-up anger began to bleed away, and his system tried to find other ways to release it faster. He sank his teeth into his lower lip to try to stop the trembling.

For a long moment, von Seydlitz was silent. Then, "They do not look like children to me. What they are is something different. Pre-pubescent weapons, Antares, that wear the faces of men. They represent a future that was not supposed to occur yet. I am . . .not ready to accept that my time is done so soon, is all, and little children that can speak into my mind are irrefutable proof that the ideals that the _Ordnung_ profess are indeed true. But I---I am not ready to step aside for them yet, even though I am forced to admit that they may be superior to me. Where was _our_ time?"

De la Somme nodded. One of the tenets of life on New Koenigsberg had been the quest to breed a superior human amongst the Elector Houses. Von Mellenthin, and von Seydlitz, had been products of that line of reasoning, one that had been in place for a hundred years, and even then before the _Reise zum Raum_. But instead of the superior human being a product of Space, it was instead created on Terra, by a nation that refused to believe in the possibility of a superior human. Where de la Somme saw eight children, von Seydlitz saw eight reasons why he and his older foster brother were _obsolete_.

Von Seydlitz continued, voice and face cold and hard as ice. "There was never a reason to doubt that evolution through birth would see the rise of the next stage in Space, where there was room to evolve away from the hampering effects of Terra. I was born, Dietrich was born, even you were born, and I do not doubt for a moment that we are superior to any Terra-born human. But those things in the back . . .they were _made_. Constructed, by the Federation. A testament to artificiality, just like the machine-processed NewTypes their Titans use. Everything of Terra has become a thing of unnatural conception, even those 'children'. How are they to recognize what it is to be human if they have no frame of reference for what it is to be _of_ humans? No, there are ten lifeforms in this vehicle, but only two of them are human.

"And I will not allow or accept the reign of an artificial being over the true Spacenoid. Superior humans or not, _Ordnung_ or not, I will defy that fate with every power I can muster. I do not hate them, Antares, just what they were designed to do, and that is to supplant the order of things. The Federation has trod in a realm not even the most insane of us would ever go, and they did it blindfolded and ignorant of the devils they unleashed. Just like when they promised Space its freedom and then refused to relinquish control, and they paid a heavy price for that mistake. What price should they pay for this one? What price will _we_ pay for this one?"

"How---how will Deet handle this?" He licked his lips, mouth dry from listening to his older brother's words.

Von Seydlitz scowled. "I am not certain, Antares. He may see them as you do, or as I do, or neither. You know he prefers his own opinions to base his schemes on. Sometimes I could guess his ultimate intention, but in this one . . .I simply do not know if he will raise them up as gods, or cast them down as proof of the inferiority of anything from Terra. Either of those fills me with a sense of foreboding, but there may yet be a third option that I cannot deduce."

"Hope so, for your sake." A terrible thing indeed to know one's purpose, then have a reason to doubt it. "Worst case, Reinhardt, baby, you get to clamber down here with the rest of us mortals."

"Only a mortal would say something so hateful to one who is not." De la Somme looked over at him with a snide expression on his face, and von Seydlitz suppressed a grin. There was a gulf between them on this, but both had simply decided to let it lie until the one whose word mattered more made the final decision.

Within the ring of moving armor, the heavy-lift vehicle sped northward, to meet with their King.

**Bonn, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe**

**November 9, 0087**

The hour was late, but the lights were still on. The horseshoe-shaped table was full, and the C&C was full. Calls had been made, and some preliminary orders given, but the grand plan for how to deal with Nemesis was still in the planning stages. If a plan could be made at all from what little they really did know. Reports were trickling in from Heidelberg, from Lammersdorf, and from Mannheim. Pictures and video were still being collected. The dead were still being identified. With all that and the shadow of a bioweapon over them, it was no wonder everyone looked like they were going to collapse. Soldiers relied on information to do their duty, and the hardest part of being a soldier was waiting for that information to be provided.

The faces around the table were grave, in stark contrast to the face that occupied the center of attention in the room, standing in the midst of his superiors with his khaki and black uniform pressed and swagger stick oiled and polished to perfection. Edgrove, for one, grudgingly admitted that even if he was a prima donna, the man within the horseshoe at least helped bolster his own morale. Things had been on a down for hours now, despite the liters of coffee and the flasks of "reinforcement" consumed. There was just too much stress with all the unknowns they were working with.

"So," began Captain Herschel Invictus Cramer, tapping the end of the swagger stick on his cavalry boots (which were complete with spurs), "I'm gonna go out on a limb and presume, gentlemen and ladies, that we've got ourselves a raccoon in the yard, and me and my dogs've gotta tree him right quick, am I right?" The conference call had not been good enough an option for Cramer, who had hopped a ride on an outgoing shuttle to Bonn from Kassel to be here in person.

"More like a rabid badger than a raccoon, Captain," replied Edgrove. "Did you see the von Mellenthin interview this evening?"

Cramer actually snorted. "'Course I did, sir. Has that got anything to do with all this hubbub?"

"It has _everything_ to do with all this 'hubbub'. What's your analysis of the von Seydlitz announcement, and his demands."

"Who?" Cramer's face twisted in confusion, a very similar expression to the one Edgrove was beginning to wear.

The Colonel blinked. "The announcement? The one they interrupted the interview with?"

"Oh, THAT one! Yeah, that was a doozy, wasn't it? Terrible about that fire and all that. Nothin' worse than some punk with no manners and a bad moustache making a public nuisance of himself."

Now Edgrove was not alone in his confusion. "Captain, von Seydlitz doesn't have a moustache."

Cramer blinked this time. "He don't?"

"No. You didn't watch the interview, did you?"

The blond moustache on Cramer's own face twitched. "Um, no, sir, I was . . . otherwise occupied."

Edgrove blinked. "Doing _what_, exactly, Captain?" This was unexpected.

"Football was on, sir. . .and a _who_ as well, sir."

The room was silent for a moment, with the exception of Titans Captain Sajer's amused chuckle. Edgrove cleared his throat, mind reeling with but one thought: _THIS is who we're counting on to beat the Zeeks at their own game?_

"Yes, well, that's all well and good. You've been summoned here, Captain, to be briefed on a development that has taken place here in Central Europe, one of dire importance that endangers not only Europe, but the entire Federation as well."

Cramer's eyes actually _gleamed_. Everyone in the room knew that the Captain was a glory hound, who fancied himself the reincarnation of George S. Patton and J.E.B. Stuart, combined. He even affected certain peculiarities to match his ideal military personality, like the swagger stick, the spurs and boots, several rings on his fingers, a permanent scowl on his face, and a pistol constantly with him wherever he was. He was also a stickler for the dress code (minus his own exceptions, of course), a tyrant to his subordinates, and ran his Company like a Roman legion. The standard for the 103rd Mobile Infantry Company was a Roman eagle, in fact, with the numerals CIII and the words _Letum ubique_: "Death Surrounds", emblazoned underneath it. His mobile suits even had golden torsos, as though they were wearing centurions' breastplates. The only thing they were missing were red capes.

A veteran of the War, Cramer had been an air cavalry officer before switching to mobile suits, which he treated exactly like his old attack helicopter unit. He'd fought the Zeon in Africa, managing to survive despite two GMs shot out from under him during the course of the campaign. He was imbued with enough luck to have been present for the last battles of the reclamation of the continent, and someone thought that because of that, he was command material. While he did possess some talent for armored combat, especially in the open field where maneuvers were not only sound, but also necessary, he was not a well-rounded commander, and everyone knew it except for Cramer. In spite of his idol worship of Patton, Cramer hated intelligence reports, loathed dealing with logistics, and refused to consider history as being rife with possibilities for modern tactics. Despite all that, he was the Federation's biggest gun in Europe, besides the Titans, to use against the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_, and therefore useful. Besides, he adored combat against another armored force as much as he adored coaching football to the games on the vidvision. He was also utterly fearless and refused to admit defeat, ever.

"Well, Herschel, it goes something like this. At 1800 hours this evening, FNN began its much-hyped live interview with the imprisoned Zeon Major General Dietrich von Mellenthin . . ." the next fifteen minutes were taken up getting the rest of the story told.

When the assembled had finished, Cramer whistled. "I thought these rats'd been dead for a while."

"So did we all," admitted Edgrove.

"Now they're back," Cramer started pacing, eyes cast downward, chewing on his moustache as he spoke, "and snuck up on us with a sack of shit to hit us with. These ain't your typical Zeeks, are they?"

Edgrove motioned to a mousy-looking man who had been hiding in the shadows. He was the lowest-rank officer in the room, a Second Lieutenant. He was also the official historian, and the archivist. He shuffled forward, looking like an old man as he clutched files and folders to himself. After some fumbling, the little man settled himself near a computer terminal and activated the main screen in the room. A face appeared on the screen, young and obviously something that had been dredged from a school file. The man glanced at Edgrove.

"Proceed," said the Colonel, tempering it with a smile. Historians rarely got out of the archives, and usually did not relish being in front of an audience that all outranked them. The man's nervousness was justified.

Despite his appearance, the voice that came out of the throat of the historian was strong, albeit unconfident. "Sirs, the face on the screen is Dietrich von Mellenthin. Born on October 14, 0056, New Koenigsberg, Side 3. Only son of one of the administrators of the colony. In keeping with the social structure of New Koenigsberg, he began basic military training at age six."

"_WHAT_??" snapped Cramer, whirling around. "That's _CRAZY_!"

"Let him talk, Captain," said Edgrove before the historian could answer.

"Ahem," continued the small man, and the picture on the screen changed to a very young von Mellenthin, "he attended Gross-Lichterfelde Academy, New Koenigsberg, from 0063 until 0067. Graduated top of his class."

The picture shifted again, this time to an older von Mellenthin, wearing the dark green uniform of a cadet. "Was accepted into the Side 3 Military Academy in 0068, one of the youngest ever to attend. Graduated with honors in 0070, three years ahead of schedule, specializing in grand strategy and armored warfare. Was transferred to Granada in 0075 into the mobile suit training battalion. Please bear in mind that he is now age eighteen, and holds the rank of First Lieutenant."

Again the picture shifted. In this one, von Mellenthin was conferring with what appeared to be engineers, the legs of an MS-05 _Zaku_ behind him. He was smiling, as though he were joking around with those around him. Another picture showed him at a table console, surrounded by other mobile suit trainees, pointing at something on the screen below them with a stylus. It looked like a maneuvers diagram.

"Jesus, he's so _young_," remarked Cramer, almost unconsciously, voice contemptuous. This was a truly alien concept to him, who was a Captain and nearing forty years of age. "No wonder he got his ass whupped. Stupid-ass Zeeks thinking kids'll win their damn wars for 'em. Barbarians, all of 'em."

"After graduating from mobile suit training in 0076, he was promoted to Captain, which is what he should have been during the War, except that _something_ happened between 0076 and 0079, and Captain von Mellenthin became Colonel von Mellenthin, commanding the 10th Mobile Armored Brigade, Mobile Assault Corps, under Major General Kishiria Zavi. However, for as-yet-unknown reasons, the 10th Mobile Armored Brigade was listed as an 'autonomous' unit, not underneath the control of the Earth Attack Force or the Mobile Assault Force command structure. The 10th Brigade, dubbed '_Panzerkaempfer_' by von Mellenthin himself, was combat-dropped into the Belarus region in the second drop of Operation British, March 11, 0079. Their mission was to spearhead Operation Lorelei, the conquest of Europe."

The screen transformed again. Von Mellenthin, conferring with his Battalion Commanders, somewhere on the Russian steppes. A city was behind them, relatively intact.

"Before you ask, that city in the background is the then-recently captured Minsk, March 13, 0079. The first thing the 10th Brigade did when they landed was the impossible, and that was take mobile suits across the Pinsk marshes in a day, and catch Minsk by surprise. Its conquest was . . .routine. Seven days later, they were in Warsaw, Poland. The day after that, Lodz and Poznan fell. Two days after the fall of Warsaw, both Berlin and Prague were taken in a simultaneous blitz." The picture on the screen was taken in front of the Brandenburg Gate, with two lines of _Zaku IIs_, each saluting, lining the street. Their pilots were on their open hatches, also saluting. Another _Zaku II_ stood before the gate, receiving the salute as it marched through it. A close-up photo within the frame of the first picture revealed that it was von Mellenthin, making the conqueror's march through the Gate as though it were the _Arc 'd Triomphe_ in Paris itself. There were Magella attack tanks arrayed below and to the fore of the _Zaku IIs_, along with infantry, all saluting. The photographer was on the ball with that shot. In black and white, it was reminiscent of shots from 1939, during Nazi Germany military parades.

"After the capture of Berlin, the 10th was upgraded to an understrength division, with two brigades, which was the largest the unit ever became during the War. The rest is common history, sirs, that I will not tire you with, but suffice to say that the 10th outran its own tenuous supply line, then was halted, cut off from the Zeon 14th Terrestrial Mobile Division, and pushed back during Operation Odessa. It is _this_ picture however . . ."

The screen changed to one that was obviously taken in Paris. Von Mellenthin was in a group of people in Zeon field uniforms, gray and gold, in the center of the picture. The others were arrayed around him in lines, and the Eiffel Tower stood behind them, slightly damaged by what might have been a missile hit. One of the other people in the picture had his face circled in white.

". . .Which leads us to the second player . . ."

The picture shifted to a completely different face. Where von Mellenthin's pictures, even the formal ones, conveyed almost pleasantness, this face was harsh, angular, and impassive. " . . .Reinhardt von Seydlitz. Born November 9, 0057, New Koenigsberg, Side 3, the only son of another colony administrator. His parents were killed in an accidental Colony Corporation tunnel venting in 0063, and he was then fostered with the von Mellenthin family as a semi-formal adoptee. He attended Gross-Lichterfelde Academy, Side 3, from 0064 to 0068. A year behind his foster brother, Dietrich von Mellenthin, he was accepted into the Side 3 Military Academy, graduating in 0072, fifth in his class overall, but specialized in field tactics and armored warfare. He, too, was transferred to Granada in 0075, for mobile suit training, as a Second Lieutenant. He was seventeen years of age in that photo."

"Did they ALL start their training so young?" asked Sajer, who was paying uncharacteristically avid attention to detail in this briefing.

"No, sir, it appears to be something unique to New Koenigsberg. No other Bunch on Side 3 has this method of education."

"It's downright creepy," said Cramer, "makin' kids into killers. Animals."

"It's not a new idea, sir, " said the historian, knowing he was in his element now. "Sierra Leone used to employ children in their army at age seven, back in the 20th Century."

There were fewer pictures of von Seydlitz, and often what was available was in the background of other screenshots. He apparently was not a fan of cameras, but had been caught in a few nonetheless. He was not particularly photogenic, and he never seemed to smile, except in the scattering of pictures where he was caught with von Mellenthin, and he almost seemed human.

"Aren't _they_ the fucking couple?" grunted Sajer.

"Shit," said Cramer, "you've been in each other's pockets since you were six years old, goin' though all that mess, you'd wanna find someone to be close to, too. You think they're . . .you know . . .like _that_ and all?"

"If you mean homosexual, there's no evidence of it," commented Edgrove. "We combed through their history pretty well during the War, and it seems our man von Seydlitz isn't comfortable with affection of any sort, so I'd say 'no' to that theory."

"I concur, sir," said the historian, whose confidence had been growing as he'd gotten into the rhythm of the briefing. "From what we've gathered, their relationship was brotherly at best, but in actuality, it more resembled something almost--- _medieval_. Like a baron and his trusted knight confidant. We don't have anything like it in our society today that could be used as a metaphor."

"This is too fucking weird for me. Damn Spacenoid social mores. Can't tell anything from it." Sajer huffed, crossing his arms across his chest.

"So lemme get this straight," queried Cramer, "these two have been in the thick of it together since they were six, and this whole Nemesis thing is probably all their idea, too?"

Before the historian could answer, a voice boomed out from down the hallway. "_They've known each other longer than that!!_"

With a purpose in his step and a Crusade in his eyes, Camael Balke turned the corner and entered the room, a file folder at least eleven inches thick under his arm.

The room was on its feet in a second, except for Cramer, who had been standing. Edgrove's eyes were bugged out of his head, and a vein throbbed in his temple. "How in _hell_ did _YOU_ get _in here_!?!" he demanded, raging.

Balke smiled, tossing the file folder in front of the historian with a _thud_ that only reams of paper can make when hitting a desktop. He gestured behind him with a thumb. "Your guard outside poked an ex-Ranger friend of mine in the chest with a finger one too many times. I think he's being rigged to an explosive device right now, one probably linked to his walkie-talkie, so I don't recommend calling for him. How're they hanging, Luke? The other one finally drop since your last promotion?"

Edgrove's nostrils flared. "Don't fucking call me that, you diseased little shit! Why the hell are you here, Balke?"

The ex-Captain stepped around Cramer, who had interposed himself between Balke and the rest of the room, as though the cavalryman were a chair or a pillar. "Well, I was listening to FNN on the radio while I was driving up here to motivate you into checking out the salt mine explosion at Berchtesgaden, but it seems the snakes got out of the sack and bit you in the ass cheek before I could warn you."

Sajer glared down at Balke. "And who the shit do you think you are, coming here to warn _us_?"

Balke glanced up at the young Titan, as if noticing him for the first time, then looked at Edgrove. "Who's the alphabet, Luke?"

'Alphabet' was a derogatory name for the initials FNG, or 'Fucking New Guy'. Sajer flared red, knowing full well what it meant. "My _name_ is Titans Captain Garrett Sajer, civilian!"

Balke frowned. "Nah, that's too long. Is it okay if I call you 'Captain Assclown' for short?"

The Titan made like he was going to fling himself across the horseshoe table, and two or three Federation officers restrained him. Balke grinned sardonically. He had ten years and a lot more nasty on this kid in black and red. Like Cramer, Balke was nearing forty with each successive breath, but had managed to keep in decent enough shape despite the booze, drugs, and prostitutes.

"If these fuckups are what you've got for advisors, Luke, my man, it's no wonder you've got problems."

"You didn't answer my question, discharge. What the fuck are you doing here?" If he hadn't been out of shape, Edgrove was considering kicking Balke's ass himself. The man was a disgrace, and had been since he'd violated orders during the War.

After the Zeon blitz on Bayreuth, every combat officer of the 4th Cavalry Brigade had managed to get killed in action. Balke, an S-2 Intel officer from one of the Recon companies of the brigade, had assumed overall command of the remnants, and then proceeded to flee with what was left of his troops across all of Germania, then all of France, and had not stopped to fight until he had reached the Pyrenees Mountains that divided the Iberian peninsula from the rest of Europe, in defiance of every order Jaburo had sent him. He had even tried to convince the 4th Armored Division to abandon Luxembourg, against orders, and follow him and his troops to the butt-end of France and not engage the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_. Nor did he obey the order to assist in the defense of Paris. Instead, he and his surviving people crossed the Garonne River and spent a month destroying every bridge and mining every ford they could find, then set up a static defense on the far bank and waited for the 10th Panzerkaempfer to arrive. After the 10th had been pushed back and locked down in Metz, the Federation had court-martialed Balke for cowardice and dereliction of duty, as well as violation of direct orders during time of war. Thanks to the testimony of his surviving men, he had avoided imprisonment (and guilty verdicts) on the cowardice and dereliction charges, but was dishonorably discharged from the service for refusal to obey orders during time of war.

Edgrove had testified against Balke during the court martial. When the 9th Army had landed at Cherbourg, Edgrove had been tasked with bringing the survivors of the 4th Cavalry under Derrick's command. On the radio, in full volume, Balke had not only refused the order, but had basically informed Edgrove that he could take the paper the order was on and shove it so far up his own ass that he could taste it, and that Jaburo was invited to watch.

Balke had maintained for years that the 10th _Panzerkaempfer _had not been destroyed at Metz, and that von Mellenthin should have been executed. He had also argued that every action he took during the War was the correct one in the face of a superior enemy combat force, and that the people in Jaburo had no right to judge his on-field initiative when they lacked the information to adequately give orders under the circumstances. That argument had, of course, flown like a lead balloon.

And now here he was, being vindicated one raving point at a time. Edgrove had no desire or time to admit that they'd been wrong in judging Balke. He also hated the man's irreverence, holier-than-thou attitude, and rampant hedonism. Every filthy habit that Edgrove had despised throughout his entire military career were staples of life to a man like Camael Balke, who smoked, drank, chased loose women, hit on female officers in direct violation of regulations, flaunted his authority, defied the authority of his superiors, and talked like a common street ruffian. On the other hand, he hated Titans with a passion he reserved only for hating the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_, and he had fought this devil before, to the tune of it costing him most of his troops at the Garonne River. If he were only _controllable_ . . .

"Saving your fat ass, last I checked," was Balke's reply, as he lit a cigarette with an antique Zippo Playboy bunny lighter. A hand tapped him on the shoulder, and he slid a glance out the corner of his eye at Cramer.

"'Scuse me, son, but this ain't a smokin' area."

Balke looked Cramer up and down, and a grin swept across his face. "Well, aren't you pretty, sweetheart? Herschel Cramer, I presume? Camael Balke, a pleasure. I'd shake your hand, but I don't hear it when girls talk."

He flicked ash off of his cigarette in Sajer's general direction. "Or when assholes talk, for that matter."

Sajer looked like he was going to spontaneously combust, and only the hands holding him kept him from chucking a chair at Balke.

Cramer's eyes burned, but he was forced to blink when Balke exhaled into his face, then shook the hand off of his shoulder. Technically, had he his rank, Balke was Cramer's superior by seniority.

"Your sweet little chickies like Cramer here, not to mention 'Captain Assclown', haven't got a clue about what these Zeeks will do to them, and to you, do they, Luke? And Twitchy the Wonder Bank of Knowledge over there," he said, pointing at the historian, "is running on bad data, data that you're eating up like burritos with sides of snatch juice, then wondering why you've got a case of the runs."

The atmosphere of the room chilled, and he blew out a lungful of smoke. "No offense to the diarrhetics out there, of course."

Edgrove smashed a fist into the table. "All right," he said quietly, through clenched teeth, "what do _you_ know, and make it good, or by God I will have you shot in the square like a dog!"

Balke smiled. "I've got a few bits of this and that on these Space Nazis, but there's some things I want from you cockmongers first, and if any of you've got at least enough brains in your assholes to think about sitting down and listening, you won't tell me 'no'."

**Rhein River (near Mainz), Rheinland-Pfalz, Central Europe**

**November 10, 0087**

Nighttime on the Rhine River, ever the most popular time for clandestine social rendezvous for romantic liasions. What would ordinarily be a time of whispers in the dark, the murmurs of love, and the moody yet subtle procedures of courtship, both traditional and radical, all while dimly illuminated by the lights of not-too distant Wiesbaden and the much nearer state capitol of Mainz, was almost as still as a tomb. The declaration of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ had stunned Europe, but nowhere more so than Germania itself, and its night life was affected all the same. Instead of couples, who sought a queer form of solitude meant for two on the banks of the great river, there was no sign. Only the truly daring thought the whole thing a hoax, and found more challenge in convincing their paramours to come out of their homes and join them than in combating whatever fear they may have had of Nemesis. It was mostly the young out tonight, those who had little memory (or care) of the War and what it entailed.

No, despite the hate-filled words and the caustic demands of a person whose name few knew and whose past few cared enough about, and despite the cold of the air outside, this was the time for the heart. At the very least, the coffee shops and bars were still going, and business was brisk even so, as those who were afraid but still able to venture from home and hearth sought the company of others, feeling secure in groups. The topics of conversation ranged wildly, but few were willing to ponder the meaning of a Germany without the Federation. Few were prepared to debate its impact just yet. Besides, spoke the coffee shop philosophers and the tavern politicians, it was one thing to _say_ that Germany was its own nation again, under the sway of its Spacenoid cousins; it was another thing to _be_ such.

For those who did find solace in companionship but did not indulge in coffee or alcohol, there was still the river. To walk hand-in-hand with another soul was comfort enough, even in the chill of the air. Whatever the ebb and tide of the future, the river always flowed, changing but eternal all the same. And despite the lack of other traffic in the wake of Reinhardt von Seydlitz's words to the world, there were still boats. Those not enmeshed in the eyes of their would-be mates may have even noticed that there were three massive barges plying the river now, and paid them no mind further.

But none noticed the intermittent flare of a red mono-eye from _beneath_ each barge, as their 'passengers' took a look at the riverbanks even as they continued on their way.

"Entering the Middle Rhine region. Slow to ten knots," ordered Wolfram La Vesta from his MSM-03C _Hygogg_. He, and the boat he was towing under the power of the amphibious mobile suit's thrusters, was in the lead of their little flotilla. "Prepare to divert to one-zero-five to skirt the Rettberg island."

The two MSM-07E _Z'Gok Es_ behind him confirmed, and he took another quick peek around with the main sensor of the _Hygogg_. Traffic was pretty light around here, a fact for which he was eminently grateful. The Middle Rhine was the most romanticized portion of the whole river, an area that ran from "Golden Mainz" to Koeln in the north, a distance of 190 km length. Caution for the next 155 km was vitally important to them. In an odd twist of fate, La Vesta knew they would actually have an easier time of hiding their mobile suits during the day, when the waters of the Rhine would darken the shadows of the barges above them, clutched forcefully in the fingers of his _Hygogg_ and the brutal claws of the _Z'Gok Es_. At night, the main camera illuminated the mono-eye in garish red light, which anyone paying even half-attention would notice immediately. That thought made La Vesta sweat.

Especially since not only was this the most romantic piece of this meandering river, it was also the most populated piece. Every three kilometers or so was another village, or town, or outright city, all of whose citizens were attracted to the waters like drunks to a beer tap. The cold helped with that, thankfully. While the Rhine would not freeze, its proximity would drop the mean temperature by another few degrees, which made it uncomfortable even to people who had lived here their whole lives.

Even without the main camera, the sonar system of the suits was enough to allow for relatively easy navigation, and the water allowed for communication using hydrophones instead of the radio.

"_Hey, Sarge_," piped up Nestor Hemphill, who was acting as a tour guide, using a Berlitz book as a reference for each place they passed, "_did you know that the parliament building for Mainz used to be a Teutonic Knight commendam?_" Hemphill pronounced it "Mains" instead of the proper "Mine-tz".

"No, Private, I didn't."

"_We'll be coming up on Ingelsheim in a few klicks, sir. Charlemagne used to have his Imperial Palace there. There's still ruins._"

"_Who gives a shit, Hemphill?_" remarked Vito Taglienti offhandedly.

"_This is cool as hell, man!_"

"_Only if you're a fucking nerd or something_."

La Vesta overrode them both. "Cut it out, toads. Save the bickering for the first target, okay? Nestor, keep pointing stuff out. Vito, pay attention or you'll end up like some Philistine."

"_Yes, sir_," muttered Taglienti around his chewing gum.

"_Hey_," Hemphill had found something else in his book, "_we're gonna see CASTLES soon!!_"

"_What the fuck IS this, Sarge? Disneyworld?_" Taglienti could not have been more derisive if he tried.

La Vesta sighed. This was going to be a long, long trip.

**Taunus Mountains, Hessen, Central Europe**

**November 10, 0087**

It had been a nightmare maneuvering the heavy-lift vehicle off of the _Autobahn_ and into the forest that lay at the foothills of the Taunus _Gebirge_ range, but de la Somme had refused to admit defeat. Teeth displayed in an impressive grimace of both aggravation and elation, the ace had taken the huge truck into the trees at speed, only slowing when he had to avoid a tree that was too big to plow through. Von Seydlitz had simply let him drive, and kept his opinion of the destruction to himself.

The suits, of course, had no difficulty moving whatsoever, their pilots more than familiar with the intricacies of in-forest handling. They fanned out, making certain that they had no followers before they melted into the trees. The helicopters had finally given up, and more were due to arrive soon, but they would find nothing when they got here. No _Polizei_ had been brave enough to give chase on the _Autobahn_, and no one else in Hessia would be dumb enough to try and follow heavily-armed Zeon suits into the darkness that beckoned within the hills and hollows.

After several hours of skilled piloting under IR lights, they had finally arrived at the staging area. The two _Dom Tropens_, deactivated without their pilots, looked like sentinels in front of a collection of large tents, kneeling on one massive knee each, heads bowed low. There was no immediate sign of McKenna's _Dom_, but it was undoubtedly around somewhere. Weissdrake and his _Gelgoogs_ were due to arrive in half an hour, barring unforeseen developments en route. Von Seydlitz opened the door of the vehicle and stepped out, carrying his map case with him. They were deep into the forest and mountains now, where only the creatures still lived.

"Get your wards out of the cargo area, have them cleaned and fed, then put them to bed under guard. After that, get your suit off of the vehicle and place it somewhere suitable for the evening. Once that is done with, come find us in the command tent."

"Gotcha, Colonel," answered de la Somme, glad enough to see his two people and their _Dom Tropens_ intact that he pushed his own misgivings aside. "If you piss him off, I get to watch, okay?"

Von Seydlitz slammed the door shut without replying and started walking towards the center tent. It was so quiet here, far away from the big cities and so deep in the wilderness that a man could hear his own heartbeat as the loudest sound available to pick up on. In the middle of winter, most of the animals were hibernating, or had gone to warmer climes. The insects were silent, and only the occasional call of a nocturnal bird broke the silence. The occasional whine from a mobile suit was almost an unacceptable intrusion into the hushed ambience. He was keenly aware that every footstep he took crunched icy snow and dead leaves under his heel, audible for what seemed like miles. The voices of the men, getting boisterous in their own shelters and moving about in the woods, were not enough to dim the thunder of his own footfalls, even when de la Somme whistled for his men to help him with the eight children.

The temporary shelter was old, dating back to the War, but still in good condition from storage. Whatever holes had been in it were sewn shut with what looked like fishing wire. A light from a gas lantern was on inside. A crude wooden sign had been tacked onto the door with the insignia of a Zeon Major General embossed on it.

With every step he took towards that tent, he became more and more aware of how quiet everything was, but that the sound in his head was becoming very loud. It began as a whispering sensation, one that first touched his skin underneath the uniform and the greatcoat, making him shiver involuntarily. The whisper then changed, becoming louder and louder, until it was threatening to become a roar in his own mind, and the shivering became a trembling. By the time he was three steps from the tent, his teeth had clenched as tight as they could, the rushing in his head sounded like an ocean's tide slamming into a cliffside, and he was having to suck in his breath to control the trembling, which was just on the quiet side of spasms, and blink around the red that had begun to cloud his vision.

And as soon as it began, he identified the sensation, and the symptoms ceased. All except for the rushing in his head, and the redness in his sight. He knew this feeling, though it had never before been this strong that he could remember.

It was a feeling such that with it he felt he could simply sweep his arm across his vision and blow the forest and everything in it away. A feeling so intense it was _hot_, and suddenly the layers of uniform and coat seemed intolerably stifling. This was not a normal state for him, with the quickening of the blood and the adrenalin in his veins that made the world seem slow and himself seem so very, very fast, like a bolt of lightning to shatter that which offended him. A feeling so palpable, so immediate, that it brought hot tears into his eyes, and he rubbed at his eyes furiously to erase them and every trace of their presence. Tears had always been shameful to him, even if he faulted no one else for theirs.

Taking in a very deep breath, he managed to calm himself to the point where he was confident that he could speak without his teeth chattering. Then he knocked twice, paused, knocked twice again, paused again, then four times in quick succession, _tap-tap---tap-tap---taptaptaptap, _on the wooden sign, using the map case as a knocker. Then he went inside, without being bidden.

As was his right.

A space heater whirred in the far end of the tent, making the interior of the heavy fabric several dozen degrees warmer than the outside (about 75 F, if von Seydlitz was right). Sitting in the middle was a field table and two foldling chairs, a pair of standard issue military cots on the left side, perpendicular to each other. In one of the folding chairs sat Dietrich von Mellenthin, attired in a grayish-green T-shirt and his uniform trousers. His feet were bare, and he had them crossed on the tabletop. A field manual for a mobile suit was in his hands, and it was obvious that he had been intently reading it before the interruption, but with a measured slowness that von Seydlitz knew was deliberate, he took his eyes off of the pages and placed his gaze firmly on the face of his subordinate.

"_Guten Abend_, Reinhardt." And the blue eyes did not blink, even as a smile formed on the older yet too-familiar face like the sun's rise after a long rain.

"_Guten Abend, Herr General,_" replied the gray eyes to the blue, but there was no smile on that face. Von Seydlitz placed the map case on the ground to the right of the tent door, then removed his gloves, stuffing them into the pockets of the greatcoat before removing that, as well. He tossed it on one of the cots, its weight leaving his mind even as it left his hand.

Von Mellenthin removed his feet from the table, planting them on the floor of the tent, putting the manual on the table as he stood to his 5'11" height, 9 cm shorter than von Seydlitz. "I see Antares failed in his mission. He never did manage to teach you to smile."

"You always did task him with the impossible, _Generalmajor_."

Von Mellenthin laughed quietly, but his eyebrows scrunched up over the bridge of his nose in the same way that von Seydlitz's would when something odd would come into question. "There were a few such impossibles he was good for back then. You were good for the rest of them."

He wondered why it was that von Seydlitz was keeping a distance between them, even after eight years apart. They were less than three meters from each other, but von Mellenthin felt that the remaining distance was more like three astronomical units. That was too much, and he took two steps towards his subordinate, who was removing the gray-and-gold uniform overjacket and not looking at him.

Von Seydlitz was quite aware of the narrowing proximity of his brother, and each step closer felt like a stab to the heart. His head felt light, and the rushing sound was still there, and he felt as though he were going to pass out, but he looked at his hands and they were steady. Then, von Mellenthin said the words that he rejoiced and despaired at having to hear:

"I missed you, Reinhardt. More than you can ever know."

But von Seydlitz did not miss. With a snarl of rage, prompted by a voice amidst the roar in his head that screamed "**Do It NOW!!**", he turned, drew back, swung his right fist around, and punched von Mellenthin in the face with every ounce of bitterness and ire that eight years could muster.


	13. Chapter 12

**Bonn, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe**

**November 10, 0087**

_I love being the Man!_ exulted recently-reinstated Captain Camael Balke as his grin swept across the room. He was back in his universe now, and his list of conditions had been more than met. Edgrove had not liked it one bit, but that was his problem. He wanted a fix to his sucking chest wound, and Balke was the staplegun to do the job. Even the fatigue, from the drive to Bonn and the lateness of the hour, had been washed away by the fact that he could wear the uniform again, once he had acquired a new one. It hadn't taken a lot of negotiation, not when Balke was looking down on Edgrove from a great height.

His reinstatement had complications, of course. Even in his position, Edgrove lacked the power to completely clear his name and get him back on the payroll at his full rank, but being deputized and granted "temporary authority as though invested with a captaincy" was good enough to work with. He'd even managed to secure certain regulatory immunities and conditions that any ordinary Federation Captain would have shot his own mother for. For certain, the protests had been loud and adamant about most of his "requests", and even Cramer, who flaunted regulations whenever it suited him and he thought he could get away with it, had looked as though he were going to pop like a balloon on a bed of nails.

_Fuck 'em. If they're desperate enough to beg me for help, then they can handle a few bad words, a bowl of insubordination, and a extra large glass of 'I Told You Sos' with their Happy Meal, by God!_

"Captain, the floor is yours," spoke Edgrove, managing to choke out Balke's reestablished rank without spitting, and the assembled sat down and went silent. Balke had chased most of the lower staff out, and with the exception of Dorff, who was standing off in a corner, the lowest-ranking person in the room was the historian. The audience was down to about a dozen people, total. The ex-Ranger was eminently amused that he, a former Corporal, was being treated like Balke's aide. It also helped that he was the largest man in the room.

"Okay, people," Balke said, the audience unable to affect his nerves, "background info, so get your pens and pencils and pay attention. Your enemy is on the screen, and has those two faces, so keep them in mind. What I'm going to tell you comes from sources outside the loop, but it's all clean. Some of it's even classified by Federal mandate, but I think we can all be discreet, can't we? Your historian's got a lot of facts, but can't tell you anything about the nature of the enemy. I can. Make sure Captain Assclown stays awake for this, or he'll just keep right on thinking that this is just another episode of 'Krauts From Space' and probably get killed, and that would be a damn shame and a _total_ sin at his bright and early age."

Balke's back was turned, but he could feel Sajer's eyes on him, and sense the uplifted middle finger as well. _Fuck him, too. He'll thank me later when he lives to savage humanity with his horrible gene pool._

"I think the Professor there left off doing background data. Fine. I'd start there, but that's not going back far enough. Everything centers on the past with these guys. Get one thing through your gray matter, folks: these two are NOT your typical Zeon. They're Zeeks, but not like the other Zeeks. They don't even share a common background with most of Side 3's other denizens, so don't assume anything or take shit for granted, because they'll know you are and skullfuck you with your own stupidity. That's not an insult, it's just a simple fact of what they will do. I got skullfucked by them so bad during the War that I've got two glass eyes and well-lubed sinuses. That was a joke, feel free to laugh.

"By and large, the residents of New Koenigsberg Bunch are Germans. Reason being is that it was a bunch, no pun intended, of Germans that got together about a hundred years ago or so and leased-to-own a cylinder from Colony Corporation on Side 3. Reason for that is because they needed a place to go, because they'd just been politically exiled from Earth. Reason for _that_ is because they tried to establish a form of government that was counter to what those under a republic would desire. I'm talking about a combination of imperialism, oligarchism, and feudalism, the same setup that the old Holy Roman Empire was run under. Differences were, there was nothing holy or Roman about this one.

"Imagine for a moment, the idea of an _elected_ Emperor. Sounds nice, yeah? No committees, no partisan backbiting, no shady campaigns and cheap promises for votes, no political dominance through purely military or economic means. A common man's dream government, where one guy calls the shots, but that guy gets picked by the people, and what the people want, they get, right? Fucking _wrong_. What these guys tried to build was a feudal electorate patterned off of the _Pfalzgraf_, the Elector-Princes of the old German tradition. The Emperor, while not a true hereditary power, gets put into position by the Elector-Princes, and rules the whole show for life. When he croaks, the Elector-Princes get together and vote in another one of their number, usually after some form of trial. The Elector-Princedoms are hereditary positions, whose powers are granted to them by the Emperor, so the only way to get rid of them is by killing off the current family and replacing it, or having the Emperor get pissed off, strip them of their land and title, and give it to another House.

"These dirtbags liked the idea so much that they decided to resurrect the whole concept and force-feed it down Germany's throat, but they actually tried it _legally_. This was back when the first space colonies started to spin, and the undesirables were being forcibly relocated. Fifteen families, one for each German state after the 1990 Old Calendar reunification, each rose to some sort of social dominance over their respective territories and decided to elect an Emperor under the old tradition of _Taiding_. This would legitimize what they'd done in the eyes of the people, who would then be obliged to swear fealty to the Princes and thus, subsequently, to the Emperor. Germans get off on traditions, and this one has never been far from the surface, even today."

He paused and glanced around. The faces around him bore looks of confusion. _I adore a captive audience._ "Germans are funny people. You ask one to define what a German is and they can't do it, but they all share one trait in common and that is a desire to be ruled. Germans without strong leadership get funny ideas, and then start looking to kill Frenchies, Slavs, and Poles to better their own gains. These fifteen families of throwbacks managed to convince a sizeable portion of the population of Central Europe that as leadership went, the Federation wasn't cutting it. So they rose up and tried to vote out the politicians who were also Federation supporters, so that they could take power, call for a Germany-wide election on whether or not to accept Federation control anymore, kick the Charter out, and then rule with an iron fist for the next five hundred years or so.

"Their plan was opposed by the elected Federation-phile politicians, and also by the Roman Catholic Church. The conspirators had tried to get the nod from the Church to make their future Emperor's rule legit, the way it used to be done. I don't think the Cardinals and the Holy See had ever moved that fast to block a succession in a thousand years. But they couldn't act on their own volition, not with a separation of church and state in effect. So they reestablished an old chivalric order based on the Teutonic Knights of the Templar tradition. These agents then took up the sword of reason and began shutting doors in the faces of the Fifteen. They, and the Church, saw the _Taiding_ for what it really was, and rallied their people against a tyranny that wore the face of a comrade. The Fifteen appealed to the German in their supporters; the Church appealed to the soul of the people, using their Knights as their field agents, capable of actions that their priests and laity were forbidden to use. The Church won, and the Fifteen failed. Halle-_fucking_-luia.

"They were due to be tried for treason, but they were more farsighted than the Federation was at the time. Each of these fifteen families, and their supporters, were economically powerful, and held a lot of stock in the infrastructure of Europe. When it was apparent they weren't going to wheedle their way into anywhere but a stockade, they tried to kill off the opposition party. When _that_ plan went balls-up, they up and liquidated all their holdings, and managed to lease a colony in space. They then packed up and left Earth for Side 3, the furthest place from Earth they could get to and still be in the Sphere, set up shop in their brand new cylinder, and got back into business. They named their Bunch 'New Koenigsberg', and the Fifteen, as the Elector-Princes, became the administrators for the colony.

"Now, even though their basic pattern was taken from the Holy Roman Empire, there was a dark side to this system. The Fifteen are strict eugenic Nietzscheans, and the Church saw that and put a stop to it while they still could. What I mean is that these assholes were out to raise an Emperor who was a superhuman, one that was born to a power that was tangible, physical, and spiritual, the way no previous tyrant had ever been. Where others had divine mandate, they would have genetic supremacy, which was a lot easier to prove and act with than the idea that your throne was given to you by God. But in order to make certain that their Emperor was who he needed to be, they ALL had to be superhuman, so that whomever was elected by the Princes would be one of them, and therefore perfect for the job. Using selective breeding and highly illegal genetic experimentation, they began their quest to build the better monkey. That got them in trouble here on Earth, but my gut tells me they didn't give up their ways, and the fruits of their labors are ripe."

Balke pointed at the screen, eyes on the audience, who sat silent and stunned. "After three generations of doing who knows what with DNA strands, I give you their latest models for the New World Order: Dietrich von Mellenthin and Reinhardt von Seydlitz. Each from one of the Fifteen Houses of the Electors, each superior than their forebears. Raised into a social system that abhors decency and equality, and exists on a level of oppression the likes of which no society has ever before seen, one where there is a very real and very defined caste system based on eugenics. If the shady kind of reports I got to sift through are all true, their chromosome fiddling, plus being in the hardy environment of space, have produced some rather unique . . .mutations in the way they look at life, the universe, and everything."

Cramer perked up. "What kinda 'mutations'? They got two peckers or something?"

"No, but that would be pretty cool though, wouldn't it?" Balke's tone was almost wistful. "I'm not sure what they can do that's any different than what you or I. . .well, at least _I_ can do. All I know is that if the rumors are true, these assholes have more tweaks and additions to their DNA than a Volkswagen Beetle in a ricer meet. Expect anything and everything from them, just in case.

"Now, the present. Side 3, of course, home of Zeon Zum Daikun's NewType theory. That's not a coincidence, by the way. Played right along with the scheme, at least to the observer, even after the Zavis took power and Giren proclaimed his own NewType theory. It was obvious that there was going to be a war between Earth and Space, it was only a matter of when. In that light, as the historian probably mentioned, they drastically altered their education system and began preliminary military training at a very early age. This system is still in place under the Republic of Zeon, by the way."

"Excuse me," interjected Edgrove, who had managed to still the voice in his own head that prompted him to dwell on the ramifications of what Balke was saying, "but something doesn't make sense in all of this, not that much of this really does make sense, mind you. You say that they're after conquest, rulership, a system of—of domination, but neither of them have exhibited any signs other than sociopathy. Why commit themselves to mass-murder and genocide when they're supposed to be enslaving Earthenoids?"

Balke wagged a finger at Edgrove, but smiled. "Good question, Lu---_Colonel_, sir," he caught the slip before he could finish it. "Remember, Giren Zavi was the genocidal one. The New Koenigsbergers aren't like that, and that's one of the reasons I think Nemesis is a smoke job. The blotter acid in the punch bowl, I guess you could say. But the desire to not mass-execute all of Earth doesn't mean they don't have the will to do it. This is bigger than that. To them, it's not just a body count that matters, but who's running the show when the curtain lifts. Von Mellenthin's a power nut, and he did everything he could during the War to make it so that as few people as possible were higher than he was on the chain of command. Von Seydlitz's demand that the Federation get the hell out of Germany runs along a similar line."

He punched a button on the keypad, and put up a highlighted section of the transcript of von Mellenthin's war crimes trial in 0080 on the screen. "Here, this is what von Mellenthin said when one of the tribunal judges accused him of being a traitor. He said, 'I and my species fight to free ourselves from a regime that cannot understand our motives or accept our goals. That makes me a patriot, not a traitor. You all serve that regime with a devotion as blind as any who labor under a system they cannot control or understand, and you enforce its will on all humanity, on Earth and in Space. What does that make you all?'"

Sajer's lips curled into a sneer. "'_Patriot_'? I can't _believe_ he'd sing that old tune! What a fool!"

Balke nodded in agreement. "Yeah, that's what the tribunal said, too. They told him to justify every atrocity committed before and after the Antarctic Treaty by the Zeon, if he really thought that way. Know what he said? He said, 'I don't have to justify myself to inferiors, any more than you justify yourselves to your pets. Space is the home of the ultimate expression of Humanity, and that responsibility is far greater than enduring the hue and cry over the removal of hordes of those who are lessers, especially ones who were sent into space because they were scum that even _you_ rid _yourselves_ of because they took up too much living room on _your_ planet of the perfect.' Getting the picture now, Assclown? They're not just in it to bring down the Federation: they're here to conquer, subjugate, break the rest of humanity to their yoke, and prove that only they are capable of ruling us they way every ruler has meant to. The kids are going to do what their Dads couldn't, and that's being the masters of the destiny of the species."

Balke's eyes bored into Sajer's. "And the worst part about all of this is, we're giving them all the reason in the universe to hate us more than we hate them. Every action the Federation has taken in space has threatened their ideals, their philosophy, and their way of thinking, and for that they want to see us crawl like bugs under their jackboots. They think we've put them in a corner and will destroy them for what they believe, because thanks to the Titans, that's _exactly what we do!_

"But I digress, sorry." He turned to the historian, who had been furiously scribbling with the speed of the practiced dictation user. "You said they've known each other since they were six. You're wrong. They've known each other since _infancy_. Von Seydlitz commanded a battalion in the 10th, and he conquered Prague with that battalion. Peas in a pod, these two are."

He clasped his hands behind his back and started pacing, but did not stop talking. "I didn't find out until after the War that they put their fifteen into positions of power in the Zeon military. But the War was far worse than they had expected, mostly because the Zavis fucked up, and their little perfect soldiers mostly forgot that they'd be commanded by dickheads that were less capable than they themselves were, and twelve of them died. I think the thirteenth one turned up on the KIA list after Stardust. Von Seydlitz was supposedly the fourteenth. Even so, they cost us dearly, especially here in Europe, where the supposedly autonomous 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ was put under orders time and time again by the Zavis to do things no right-minded general would do, and then had to pay the price for it. It's what happens when politicians run wars, and I thank God for the Zavis every day for that. But we didn't finish them off."

"So what's the problem?" asked the historian, speaking up for the first time since Balke took the floor. "History shows that tyrannical reigns rarely last more than two or three generations before collapsing, especially those patterned on military power or supremacist ideals."

"Yeah, it does, so let me scare the piss out of you a little bit more, just in case some of your trousers are as dry as Captain Assclown's." Balke's voice quieted to a conspiratorial whisper. "They most likely already _know_ that. If there's one thing the Fifteen have always paid attention to, it's history. They know _why_ military societies fall apart, and have inoculated themselves against it. Sociological lesson time: military civilizations hasten their demise without a constant state of warfare because they have no culture beyond conquests to maintain themselves with. This occurs because everyone's too busy practicing the martial arts as opposed to painting, or imagining, or writing good literature, or studying the way the world works, or any other number of the arts and sciences that provide for a thriving culture. Their leaders tend to be no different, just successful generals or guys with the most coups counted or the biggest and most magical sword they swiped from some skank in a lake. How can a society thrive if their lord is nothing more than a two-bit thug with a body count?

"Lemme tell you a little something about _Herr_ von Mellenthin: he is a soldier, but he's also _more_ than that. He tells stories. He plays the piano, and has even composed a few concertos in his day. He can draw decently, and likes critiquing art because he knows the nuances. He reads, insatiably. He's a philosopher, too, capable of understanding all forms and fashions of other philosophies, and all their weaknesses. He is a _learned_ man, and probably possesses more raw knowledge than half the people in this room, combined. He knows the value of martial prowess, and also of social consciousness. What does that tell you about their motives?"

He glared at Edgrove as he paused in his tirade, breathing heavily. "It was _never_ cowardice that made me and my people run during the War, Colonel. I knew what was commanding the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ the moment they took Minsk, and that we weren't ready for them. Knowing my opponent was part of my job, and the 10th had TWO of these wanna-be gods in its ranks, among other terrible things, like the eight or so aces that came out of their muster. I watched my brigade walk into a trap on their own turf, and we barely got out as it was. Even after it all, whoever took a stand against them died, and we survived only because of the timing of the amphibious landings before Operation Odessa. Had you and the rest of the Federal Forces been a week later in coming, I'd be dead.

"But we've got them by the nutsack now. As long as we have von Mellenthin in jail, we _know_ what they're after. All we have to do is make them come and get him, and they're _owned_. They won't move without their tin god." Satisfied, Balke sat down and clasped his hands behind his head. He wondered why the room was so silent, though, and his eyes narrowed as he swept them across the faces arrayed before him. "What?" he asked, hesitantly.

"We don't have him, Captain," said Edgrove gravely.

Balke did not know how he made it to his feet again. "Eh? Don't shit me! He's dead?"

"Not. . .exactly. They broke him out already. The Titans lost four suits, along with their pilots. We lost everybody, including most of the other prisoners and FNN reporter Irina Fields."

"This can't be happening," moaned Balke, rubbing a hand across his astonished face. "This isn't _fucking fair_!"

"God forbid _that_," muttered Sajer from his seat.

Balke's eyes found Sajer's in the room. "You're a funny guy, Assclown. I'm willing to bet you think the Titans can beat these Zeeks at their own game."

"Titans don't _play_ games, _Captain_."

"Guess what? I agree with you." Balke looked at Edgrove. "I know it's like lancing one of your own hemorrhoids, but I agree with Captain Assclown there. Send the Titans after them and smash them with sheer numbers. No offense, Cramer, but your people will get raped if they go after these guys."

"Nah, no offense," Cramer did not look amused. "I love when REMFs tell me that me and mine're gonna get assfucked before the wedding starts. Gets me all hot 'n bothered."

"It's not about _you_, buttercup, it's about _them_. When _we_ had von Mellenthin, _we_ had a card to play. Now _we_ don't, and dollars to donuts says _they've_ got a plan."

"It's too late, Balke," said Edgrove. "The 103rd is already deploying at Magdeburg."

Balke's eyes narrowed again. "Why the fuck are they going to Magdeburg?"

"Because the 10th is going to Berlin. We're going to cut them off at the Elbe River. Von Seydlitz said so."

"When the hell did he say _that? _And what does it have to do with Magdeburg?"

"When he called us directly, before you arrived. Composite analysis of the 10th's pattern of operations during the War suggests they'll stick to mountains and forests. The only mountain range en route to Berlin before they hit the open field is the Harz range. The nearest crossing for the Elbe is Magdeburg, since we're going to blow the bridge at Dessau. If they don't take the Magdeburg crossing, the next one rated for the weight of mobile suits is over a hundred kilometers away, on open terrain. With the Elbe swollen from the snows, they can't risk jumping it with their suits unless they all have _Gelgoogs_, so they have to find a crossing capable of handling the weight. _Zakus _and _Doms_ can't make the distance on thrusters in gravity."

Balke found a chair and sat down, shaking his head. "No! This is bullshit! I'm sorry, no, I don't mean the plan, Colonel; that makes a lot of sense. But why Berlin? That makes _no_ goddamn sense whatsoever! Play that call over for me, if there's a copy."

The transmissions were replayed for the sake of those who had not been there to see it the first time. It was Cramer's first time seeing that conversation as well, and when it was over he was nodding to himself. "Yep, that there's a plus-perfect, Grade-A son of a bitch. Me and my people'll enjoy horsekicking his ass back to the Moon."

Balke was lost in thought. Nemesis made no sense, any more than a move to Berlin. Von Seydlitz would never enter Berlin as a conqueror, because it would be hateful to himself, and von Mellenthin would never force him to do so. Something was missing, and he was hellbound to find out what.

He lit a cigarette, then sat back, rubbing his forehead with two fingers. "This is fucking nuts. It's _stupid_."

"Seems pretty straightforward to me, Captain," murmured Edgrove, waving a hand to clear the smoke away.

"Okay, we _think_ they're going to Berlin, we _think _they've got this germ or whatever the fuck it is. We _know_ they won't use it until they get to Berlin if we don't vacate all of Germany and turn over control to them, and we _know_ they have mobile suits, armed and operational. We also," he stood now, punching a wall with each word, "_fucking well know _that they broke von Mellenthin out of Mannheim. That's bad, by the way."

"We got that," said Cramer.

"Why is that bad, exactly?" asked Sajer. "He's just a man."

Balke shot him a withering glare. "You haven't listened to a thing I've said, have you? Zeon Daikun was 'just a man'. Char Aznable was 'just a man'. Anavel Gato was 'just a man'. Aiguille Delaz was 'just a man'. The leaders of the AEUG are 'just men'. Dietrich von Mellenthin is _not_ 'just a man'!! He'll wipe his ass with your face like toilet paper, then shoot you in the liver for the kicks of watching you die, just because you're an Earthenoid, and a Titan! And he'll do it with the same scruples he uses when faced with choosing bacon or sausage at a fucking breakfast buffet, because you're an inferior and are only worth about that much hassle! I've talked to von Mellenthin, and I've looked him _in his eyes_, and whatever lives behind them looked at me like I was a fucking bug, something he'd step on and not even notice!

"It also means that von Seydlitz isn't running the operation anymore. His monstrous master is. Which brings me to how they managed to get our skirts up around our asses and our panties pulled down without us even noticing."

Balke rifled through the file folder he'd carried in until he found what he was looking for. "This is mostly guesswork, since all the proof in the world is buried under a mountain, but bear with me. April 30, this year, the Granada-registered bulk freighter _Non Sequitur_ collides with a hunk of post-War orbiting debris and takes a header into a mountain in the Alps. This is true. Reports indicate that the pilot, who was in contact with London Control, and the cargo of Lunarian ore it was carrying went splat on said mountain with no survivors. I don't think that was the case at all. I think that maybe the pilot and definitely the real cargo survived the crash, and we're seeing it in the form of von Seydlitz's mobile suits. Evidence here," he waved a glossy photo of a patch of concaved earth, "practically screams that something big and heavy landed while that freighter vaporized on the mountain. Search and Rescue failed to confirm when they checked the area. Boo-boo, big time."

"We got that already. Move along," said Edgrove, his head beginning to hurt. This was more like something out of a demented science fiction writer's dream than reality.

"Mobile suits, and probably this Nemesis critter, were the cargo. Now, two weeks ago there was an explosion in a salt mine less than twenty kilometers away from the crash site. It was that explosion that led me to Berchtesgaden, by the way. Rewind to the War, where the 10th had plenty of time to scope out the Berchtesgaden area when they were cruising the Alps making idiots out of all of us by simply going around everything. Bear in mind that this was the same op that netted them Zurich, which I'll get back to in a minute.

"Somehow, just before the final push into Metz proper and the call to 'Mistwraith' Gyar to surrender, von Seydlitz and an unknown amount of his people managed to get out before the Big Bang. Considering that no one bothered to confirm their destruction, they probably used forests and mountains, which meant they used the Alps again. This time, they stayed there, set up shop in Berchtesgaden, and infiltrated. I've got testimony from half the population of Berchtesgaden saying that just before the War's end, a group of strangers moved into town and got jobs working in the salt mine. They had papers and IDs that said they were from various places on Earth, not space, and people said they knew in advance that a group of people would be showing up to help keep the local economy going. Here's the cute part: one of them played the violin, _very _well."

Leaning over, he slapped another button and popped up a picture of von Seydlitz. "Our man 'Black Eagle' here used to be a violin player. Second chair in a full orchestra kind of violin player. The physical description matches this dick to a tee."

Balke stood to his full height. "With a lot of digging, I found an oblique reference from a field report given by a fighter pilot for the 9th Army during the Metz operation, several days before the reactor kamikaze trick, and just a few before the capture of von Mellenthin. This report stated that he, and two of his fellow flight, attempted to pursue a heavily-damaged _Gau_ bomber/carrier that managed to slip past their aerial screen and elude destruction. Permission was denied to continue pursuit on the order of senior Aerospace Forces commander, one Colonel Daniel Brown. That _Gau_ was later discovered near Freiberg, but there was no sign of cargo or crew. This means, at least to this old detective, that someone got out of Metz earlier, before von Mellenthin was even caught, and went to Freiberg to get something. Then, they kept going. What the Freiberg pickup was probably came out of Zurich, and it was probably hard currency of some type that was universally acceptable, like gold or diamonds or something they could barter with. Once they got to Berchtesgaden, they started setting up the picnic and waited for the rest of them to arrive. Von Seydlitz and his escapees show up a month later or so, and that's that.

"So they're alive, on Earth, well-hidden, and all nice and secure working in a salt mine under a mountain, while von Mellenthin makes a spectacle out of his trial and keeps everyone in the dark about whether or not anyone got out of Metz. All the while, the survivors plan out _this_ whole thing. I'd call it diabolical if it wasn't so personally embarrassing."

Cramer's eyebrow rose a fraction. "What makes it your personal bitch, Balke? Think you're God's gift to the Federation or something? You some kinda psychic on top of being a fuckup?"

"Because I knew better than to trust the 'Ghosts' to stay dead, and instead of snooping around and doing anything about it, I've been fulfilling my karmic destiny by selling cheap porn to people just like you, Cramer. That's why it's my fucking personal bitch, _also_ just like you, Cramer."

Edgrove rapped his knuckles on the desktop. "Enough with the hostility, gentlemen. That goes for all of you. Us fighting with each other only helps them. Balke, continue."

"Yes, sir. Now, I was going to start chomping on where they got the mobile suits, not to mention raiding New Koenigsberg for what I suspect are nasty things, but I'm not a Titan, and that means I can't tap anyone in space to funnel info to my desk. I tried to get people into New Koenigsberg after the War, before Stardust, but couldn't manage to get someone on the inside who got deep enough to find out what the hell they're up to. The people I did get there sent me nothing more than a lot of hoodoo reports about them raising their kids in a warlike environment, but nothing about their research or what they've been doing politically. That means that everything we see is what we know, and that's not good enough to figure out what they're really after. I was wondering if you could help me with that. . .Captain Sajer."

Sajer, who had been wrapped in his own thoughts, blinked when he realized he was being spoken to. "Hmm?"

"You, Titan. Me, Clueless. Can you get some people to do some snooping in space for me, or can't you?"

"Fuck you."

"Mmm, contempt. Makes me feel all lovey and gooey. But I've got a better idea than a grudgefuck. Colonel, sir," smiled Balke like a cherub, "could you say the magic words to charm Our Lil'est Fascist into doing me a favor?"

Edgrove actually grinned at Sajer, wearing the same smile Balke did. "That's an order, Captain." He could still do that, since this was a terrestrial problem and not a supraorbital one.

Sajer groaned, glaring at Balke with almost tangible loathing. "_Fine_, goddammit!"

"Thank you, sugarplum. It's easy, even for you Cro-Mag thinktanks. I'll get you a list, check it twice, and then you'll find out who's naughty or nice and tell _me_. In the Intel biz, we call that 'Application of Foreign Usable Resources'. It's like bribing a crooked cop for services, only not."

"When this is over, Balke . . ." Sajer's voice spoke volumes of murder.

"Yes, dear, I'll fix what ails you _after _the big game. Colonel, have you already got people checking for the delivery devices for this Nemesis shit?"

"Yes." Edgrove looked like he could use a stiff drink.

Balke was inclined to agree with him. "Okay, good. I doubt they'll find anything, though. I think we're being played, but I can't prove that, and it's best we don't take chances anyway. That gives us time, which only works for us. Why they'd be going to Berlin, I don't know, but if that's where they're going, then . . . where are they now?"

"They disappeared from Heidelberg just after the last transmission. Last report had them moving northbound on the _Autobahn_."

"Yeah, I almost forgot. We _also_ _know_ that they've got eight NewType candidates hostage, ages six to eight. Fuck you for that, by the way, Colonel."

Edgrove rolled his eyes skyward.

Balke's face took on a look of concern, then he tapped on the keypad in front of the historian, playing back the copy of the last von Seydlitz transmission. He paused it at the last moment, looking at the other face that had been on the screen. "Who is _that_, I wonder? Do me a favor and find out before daylight, Twitchy. He's got Commander's rank, so he was probably a battalion CO. I want to know how many we're dealing with, and who."

"Why's _that_ important? Expecting one of them to pop von Mellenthin in the back before _you_ can?" Despite the snideness in the comment, Sajer's point was taken.

"No, I just want to know how many nightmares got out of Metz. We can't rely on someone on the inside getting rid of our problems. People love a winner, and von Mellenthin delivers, so they'll stay loyal as long as it works, and to hell with what the future brings. Right now, they'll follow him to the end of the world and jump right off if he does. They may not be New Koenigsbergers, but they are Zeon, and they're banking on von Mellenthin being the next Giren Zavi, only without the hole in his brainpan. Don't forget that they're all in this together."

Balke lit a cigarette, drew in a lungful of smoke, then exhaled heavily. "Right. I'm going to get some shut-eye. This whole Nemesis thing is completely dumb, and I can't make sense of it while conscious _and _sober. I'll assume intelligence on Heidelberg and Lammersdorf will be here sometime between now and sunrise, and I'll take it up then. I'd suggest you all get some 'Z's, too, because when they do what they're _really _going to do, we may not get the chance again."

"I don't think I'm sleeping tonight," said Cramer, who was seriously contemplating catching a chopper to Magdeburg to join his company. "Think I'm gonna get my folks loaded and wired to make their bag limit. We got room on the roof for some Zeek skins to salt and stretch."

Balke smirked. "Make sure your people can hit like men and not mice, Cramer. I'd hate to think of your hotshots having to break a nail doing their jobs."

"You know," Cramer looked Balke in the eyes, "I hope that sad sack of shit wants a fight. I'm gonna enjoy handing his head to you just so you know that there ain't a monster under your bed for your Mommy to save your paper-pushing ass from!"

"I'll take that bet, hayseed." That was Sajer, who hadn't moved from his seat. After his proclamation, he looked at Edgrove, whose eyes smouldered with distaste. "Better put your money down, Colonel. Your boy's going to get his ass passed to him with both hands, and then you'll see why the Titans are necessary."

Balke was not smiling, but he did not look away from Cramer. "That's about the same odds as von Seydlitz smacking von Mellenthin in the face. Fucking insane to even think it. Never in a million, billion years."

**Taunus Mountains, Hessen, Central Europe **

**November 10, 0087 **

To von Mellenthin's credit, even though the blow felt like he'd just been whacked in the head with an I-beam girder (both from the power behind the punch and because of who it was coming from), he did not fall down. He did, however, stagger about a step and a half backwards, stunned. That was enough for von Seydlitz to grab him, slug him two more times, then slam him painfully onto the field table, spine bent as the taller Colonel bowed him backwards over the surface, hands gripping the T-shirt like talons. It was a brutal attack, one not at all suited to someone who was trained to kill with his hands, just one prompted by anger.

"_Miss_ me, did you!? And _whose fault _is _that_, exactly!?" Von Seydlitz backhanded von Mellenthin across the face so hard his head bounced off the tabletop. "You selfish, manipulating, _COWARD_!!"

Von Mellenthin blinked, trying to clear his vision, and von Seydlitz punched him again to keep him dazed.

"Eight _years!_" spat von Seydlitz, eyes ablaze with rage. "_EIGHT!_ I have done your work for you, Dietrich, even when it was NOT necessary for me to do so! _Damn_ you for this! _Damn _you for ordering me out of Metz! _Damn_ you for placing this burden on me, _knowing _that I would _enjoy_ it! _Damn _you for counting on Axis, those traitor _bastards_! We could have saved you at Metz, saved you from those beasts putting you in a cage!"

Von Seydlitz's fingers twisted, tightening in the coarse fabric like a vise, as he picked von Mellenthin up and slammed him back down onto the tabletop. "_Release me!_ Take this from me, knowing that I could have _saved_ you and did _nothing!_"

He punctuated the 'nothing' with another right hook across von Mellenthin's cheek. Then, as von Seydlitz drew back to hit him again, the General wrapped his left hand around the wrist of the hand that held him and _squeezed_.

Hissing as the bones in his forearm began to grind together, von Seydlitz felt his grip loosening on the older man. He glanced down, and ice water filled his veins.

Von Mellenthin's eyes looked back at him, promising nothing but pain. Despite his temper boiling over, within him, he'd realized that von Seydlitz was not out to _damage_ him, merely to _hurt_ him. He made it a point to do the same, only _worse_.

Though shorter, von Mellenthin was stronger. He bent forward suddenly, throwing von Seydlitz off balance enough for von Mellenthin to get his feet under him. Then, he began to push. Von Seydlitz's fist lashed forward, only to be grabbed by von Mellenthin's right hand in an unbreakable grip and halted in mid-flight. Slowly, inexorably, the taller von Seydlitz began to lose ground, and he threw all his weight and strength down, trying to keep the General pinned to the table.

Von Mellenthin's face was a demon's mask of blood and wrath. His temper had awoken, and his teeth were bared in an animal-like snarl of fury. Von Seydlitz was strong, so very strong, stronger now than when they had been younger, but not strong enough. Though the younger man put everything he had into it, von Mellenthin simply bore him down, his anger greater and lending him insane power in this struggle.

"_How dare you?_" the baritone voice of the General grated out, a cross between a growl and a roar. "_How dare you test me!"_

Von Mellenthin was almost completely erect now, and von Seydlitz found himself bending backwards. With unreal speed, von Mellenthin's hand loosened its grip on his wrist and closed around his neck. Von Seydlitz's hands clutched at the forearm of the hand that dug into his windpipe, clawing with everything he had. If von Mellenthin had been anyone else, the force behind von Seydlitz's fingers would have left broken bones and serious muscle and nerve damage. But von Mellenthin was made of the same stuff that he was, a gene-augmented being of heightened strength, inhuman reflexes, and tougher bones than that. Their fingers could, at times, even rend metal, and except as a concept with an ambiguous name, neither of them knew the meaning of 'mercy'. This was not going to be a fight between two trained soldiers: this was going to be a slobberknocker that could very well kill one of them.

"_Why do you force me to prove my physical superiority to you? I trusted you, ingrate vassal!_ _Only YOU could have pulled this off and succeeded where all others would fail!_" Von Mellenthin even sounded like a monster, to match the expression on his rage-filled face. "_You DARE betray me, after I promised you a portion of everything I have? I name you **CRAVEN**!_"

With a blow that folded von Seydlitz in half, von Mellenthin buried his hammerlike fist into his brother's abdomen. Already gasping for what little breath he could inhale around the unyielding fingers von Mellenthin had around his neck, what little he had been able to breathe came _whooshing_ out in a rush. Pain burst in his gut, like an organ had simply exploded. The hit that slammed into the side of his face made stars collapse in his skull.

And still he did not surrender. Raising his arms, he brought them both down on the elbow junction on the arm that von Mellenthin was using to close off his windpipe. That failed as well. In desperation, he stabbed his fingers into von Mellenthin's own trachea. The hand released his neck, and he brought an elbow across von Mellenthin's face with all the force he could muster. That bought him just enough time and room to drive a booted foot onto one of von Mellenthin's bare feet, then kick him in the stomach. The General fell down this time, but only for about half a second. Prison living had not slowed von Mellenthin a bit, and he was on his feet and moving in an instant.

Von Seydlitz did the only thing he could do, and that was counter-charge. They came together with all the subtlety of a train wreck. If anyone else had been there to see it, it would have terrified them, even if they had known them. After several minutes of ducking, dodging, weaving, grappling, and thunderous clouts to the head, neck, and whatever else they could hit that would have pulverized lesser men, the fight finally went out of von Seydlitz when von Mellenthin picked him up, lifted him over his head by a shoulder and thigh, and smashed him onto the unyielding surface of the ground. The General then began to batter him with one of the folding chairs until the younger man finally gave up trying to claw his way up von Mellenthin's leg to reach something he could hurt.

Tossing the chair aside, von Mellenthin took hold of von Seydlitz, a hand on his neck and the other with fingers curled like claws, ready to tear von Seydlitz's throat out, knees clamping von Seydlitz's arms down. The Colonel was covered in blood and trying to cough his way back into something resembling a regular breathing pattern. The older of the two was not looking terribly much better, and was gasping for breath also, arms trembling from the strain, lacerations on his exposed skin, welts rising, and a few things that looked like they were trying to become bruises swelling just under his flesh. But the rage had run its course. Exhaustion wracked them both, and when it was apparent that von Seydlitz was not going to continue this fight any longer, von Mellenthin took the weight from his arms and knelt down slowly, until he was down on both knees, looking at the bloodied form of his brother.

"You," he choked out after clearing his throat, "you never did . . .know when to stop . . . Reinhardt. . .stupid Prussian genes . . ."

The younger man blinked a few times, then slowly raised a hand to wipe blood out of an eye, smearing it. "Never . . .learned . . .how . . . Surrender was always . . . a Hessian trait . . ."

For a time, they simply remained that way, catching their breaths, feeling the colder air outside seep into the tent despite the space heater (which had tipped over during their struggle along with nearly everything else in the huge tent), its chilling fingers soothing reddened flesh. The blood of their wounds was clotting now with frightening speed, sealing the lacerations shut. Another gift to the superior species from the genemasters of New Koenigsberg to their chosen dominarchs. Only the best for those who would rule.

It began with a quiet laugh that was barely distinguishable from a cough. Then, it swept over von Mellenthin like a tidal wave, and he was laughing as though he would never stop. After a moment, von Seydlitz managed a smile, then also began to laugh as the tension bled away, tears streaming down both their faces, adding more liquid to the blood that was already dried.

Ribs hurting from laughing so hard, von Mellenthin sat down completely. "Listen to us, like two boys roughhousing in a backyard rather than two grown men who nearly killed each other in a paroxysm of ire."

"If I had remembered how hard you hit, I might have managed to talk myself out of it beforehand."

"It's been a long time, Reinhardt. What, fifteen years since the last time you and I fought? The Field of May, at the _Taiding_, just before the War?"

"That one was not much of a fight. Your first hit pretty well grounded me."

Von Mellenthin waved a hand. "It wasn't that easy. I had to club you unconscious to get you to stop. This time I didn't."

"I am not getting any younger."

"Or any less stubborn. Lose any teeth this time around?"

Gingerly, von Seydlitz probed his mouth with his tongue. "No. You?"

"Nope." Von Mellenthin visibly sobered. "We should be ashamed."

Von Seydlitz shook his head, wiping tears as he did so. "No. I have spent eight years living in a shame I could not bring myself to leave behind. I hated you for ordering me away. I hated you for saddling this burden on me. I almost lost them, Dietrich. In 0083, they nearly left to go fight with Delaz in Stardust. It happened again when Axis betrayed us. Then there was all the years of the Titans, and the hiding and waiting, and when I sent Antares away, I felt . . .alone again. I had not felt that way since I was six, and it almost broke me, and that made me hate you even more, and I hated myself for hating you."

"I knew that you would," said von Mellenthin sheepishly, "just not to that extent. There was nothing to be done about it, though. You couldn't have beaten their numbers, and I would rather have had you live in shame and continue to live than to martyr yourself to rescue me. Better the chance that the Feddies would be weak and not kill me, though they should have. The Race demanded more of its sons yet."

"Damn the Race!" snarled von Seydlitz, sitting up. "My duty was to Father, and to you! The Race could see to itself!"

Von Mellenthin looked him in the face. "Without at least one of us? The others are _dead_, Reinhardt. Killed in useless battles against overwhelming odds, all for a higher ideal called Zeon! Noble as it was, it was still useless to try, not when we were betrayed at every level by people who thought they knew war and its science. Axis is just a repeat of history, but there's only one condition to treason that isn't eventually lethal, and that's if you _win_. I have a plan to deal with Axis, too, or do you doubt that as well?"

For a moment, von Seydlitz was silent. "How did you find out about the others?"

Quietly, von Mellenthin replied, "Certain particularly cruel jailors with even crueler senses of humor. They enjoyed telling me about the confirmed Zeon dead, as though each one of them was a close associate of mine. They read me name after name after name, hoping for a reaction. I saved my grief for my solitude. The last one they told me about from the War was Wallenstein, who died when his _Musai_ was expended at Abowaku. The one who survived to fight in Stardust was Hardenberg, and he died at the hands of one of Cima Garahou's passel of traitors."

"Stefan and Markus. . ." whispered von Seydlitz. He deduced that the others had met their ends throughout the War, in various ways. "Some ruling Electorate."

"The next generation is probably being educated now, and probably superior to both of us old-gens. There will be others."

"Was it supposed to happen this way? Twice now, the superiors beaten by these. . .cattle?"

"Probably not, but as long as New Koenigsberg lives, we will live. Yes, we're the last now of our generation of the Princes, you and I. I somehow knew we would be. Our brethren didn't tend to play well with others. We at least had each other." Von Mellenthin's face went grim. "I'm sorry, Reinhardt, for leaving you for so long. At least I wasn't on vacation, though. Nothing like a Federation prison to remind you of what you're missing."

"I am sorry I hit you. I was being selfish, thinking my problems were the worst one could suffer."

"I won't hold it against you. You were just being Reinhardt, like always. You never change. The only constant thing in a fickle universe that hates us for what we are: better than everything else it's managed to produce."

Von Seydlitz nodded as von Mellenthin stood up unsteadily, then straightened.

"But the last name they used to drive a nail through my flesh was Father's," von Mellenthin's teeth were clenched, and his face was dark.

"I knew before you did. Antares told me." His voice got quieter. "I dreaded having to tell you. I suppose I have to thank the late Ms. Fields for bearing the brunt of your displeasure."

"How did he die?"

"How did _she_ die?"

"I asked you first."

Von Seydlitz drew his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, ignoring the pain of his aching bones and muscles. "The same way most Spacenoids do these days: the Titans. According to Antares, they had him assassinated for speaking against the Federation for having you locked away, and the Republic for not taking up the standard to free its sons from illegal imprisonment. The Titans killed him during a protest rally on Talos Bunch, when he was there speaking. They did not use gas, like they have with other colonies, and they have never set their feet on New Koenigsberg because we have given them no reason to directly. The other Houses have kept to their own, and not gotten involved. Prudent, if might I say so. The Titans could destroy everything we have worked for during the last hundred years. If they ever got wind of the extent of our genetic tampering, they would gas the entire colony, then incinerate the cylinder just to make certain."

"So he wasn't even at home when he died."

"Correct," von Seydlitz continued formally, as though to distance himself from his own words. "Mother . . .did not take it well at all. She went mad, Dietrich. When Antares went to see her, she cursed him for being the only one to return, as the bastard child. It . . .hurt him badly."

"I can imagine. Antares was never one of her favorite people, and I don't think she ever understood why you insisted that he live with us, even against Father's arguments about him living with his sons, who were ruling class. I didn't understand for a long time, either."

Von Seydlitz smiled. "We all need our secrets."

"You would make me wonder, wouldn't you?"

"Was I wrong?" With almost audible slowness, von Seydlitz began to rise, only to finish with his head bowed low, one knee on the floor, the other bent in front of him, fist braced on the ground. "I have both doubted and harmed you, and beg forgiveness . . .my Emperor."

Von Mellenthin felt a surge of power course through his veins, as he had so long ago, when there had been fourteen kneeling before him, along with the entire population of the New Koenigsberg colony. Kneeling at the feet of their Emperor, the Chosen One, victorious over his genetic equals on the Field of May. He reached out a hand and placed it on von Seydlitz's head.

"_Ungluecklich das Land, das keine Helden hat._" intoned von Seydlitz, as though on cue: 'Unhappy the land that has no heroes.'

Von Mellenthin responded, "_Nein, ungluecklich das Land, das Helden noetig hat._" The traditional response, its originator long forgotten: 'No, unhappy the land that needs heroes.'

The General continued. "Will you die for blood?"

"It is by my blood that life or death is mine to judge."

"Will you die for honor?"

"It is by my honor that I myself am judged."

"What is the purpose for your life?"

"Power."

"What is the question of Power?"

"Who will live, and who will die."

"Do you have Power?"

"In the presence of the One who is Power, I do not."

"Will you swear upon your blood and honor to uphold the Call of Power, to rule your lands with its mandate, and to enforce the Will of the Emperor upon all Humanity?"

"I do and shall, unto death and beyond."

The final piece. "Rise, _Graf_ von Seydlitz, and know that your Emperor is pleased with you." He reached a hand down to his brother.

Von Seydlitz raised his head and looked at the hand, fingers reddened with his blood, his own flesh beneath the nails, and made no move to take it.

Von Mellenthin felt anger welling in him again. "What?" he snapped. "You'll bend the knee, but my hand is no longer good enough for you, after eight years of being in a Federation prison with the scum of Terra?"

"No, just wash your hands first. I would hate to get germs on me." Von Seydlitz could not resist teasing him.

"_Gyah_! Squeamish, too?" von Mellenthin snorted. Then his baritone voice softened. "Still friends?"

Von Seydlitz took the hand in his own, grip firm, his cold gray eyes actually softening in a rare show of warmth that he would never allow another person to ever see. "Always, and more than that."

The older of them hauled the younger to his feet with the one hand, then wrapped his arms around him like he would never let go again. For once, von Seydlitz did not mind, and hugged von Mellenthin back with all his strength.

"You always were my best soldier, Reinhardt. I'm proud of you for holding to the plan and doing what you knew was best," whispered von Mellenthin fiercely. "Please just keep trusting me, even when everyone else won't."

Von Seydlitz could only nod, his voice unable to work around the lump in his throat.

They remained that way for a long time, and they were still locked in their embrace when the tent flap opened. Antares de la Somme, face like stone instead of his usual smirk, sort of hop-skipped into the confines of the tent, stomping the snow off of his boots even as his brothers broke apart and glared at him for the interruption.

"Beautiful Kodak moment there, guys, but you're blocking the door," He looked at the state the two of them were in, and then looked around at the disaster area they'd turned the interior into. He maneuvered around the two taller men without a word, picked up the folding chair that von Mellenthin had battered von Seydlitz into submission with, popped it open and sat down on it, staring balefully at his older brothers, who stared back with identical looks of bemusement at him.

"I guess my timing is pretty bad," continued de la Somme. "Would you like me to leave you two alone for a while longer? From the sounds of it outside, you might not be done yet, and I'd hate to think of your honeymoon as being unfulfilled."

They stared back at their younger brother in shock. De la Somme was completely straight-faced, with no sign of an emotion evident, even in his eyes.

"I can have a sign made outside, so folks'll know what's going down. We can wait and all that." He scratched his head. "It can be like 'Ozzie and Harriet', only with big guns. You can both move into a nice little two-story with a white picket fence, perfectly trimmed hedges, little garden gnomes, a dog and a cat that never fight. You know how it goes."

De la Somme could have sprouted horns and a tail, then stuck out a two-foot long tongue and licked his own forehead, and not gotten a more stunned reaction from his flabbergasted audience. "Only thing I can't figure out is which one of you is Ozzie and which one's Harriet? You might have to share pants, and the both of you are the _end-all, be-all_ of sharing, aren't you?"

Von Seydlitz recovered first. "I am not catching the 'Ozzie and Harriet' reference, but I think we are being casually mocked."

De la Somme remained deadpan. "I've got it. Reinhardt gets to be Harriet, just because he's the sensitive one."

Von Mellenthin smirked. "Yes, I think we are being mocked. What should we do about it? We've got a duty as the elders to punish this wastrel."

"'Wastrel'? Only bitches and geeks know what 'wastrel' means," huffed de la Somme. The mask was beginning to crack.

Von Seydlitz's eyes gleamed with malice. "I have always found that kicking his ass is suitable punishment."

"That sounds violent," remarked the unnaturally-calm ace pilot. "I deplore violence, especially against orphans and other respectable entities."

Nonplussed, von Mellenthin stared at him. "I hear orphans squeak when you stomp on them."

"I have always wanted to hear one squeak," von Seydlitz said. "Which of us should stomp on him?"

"We'll have to decide in the manner of our forebears. It's tradition."

De la Somme yawned. "You're both so boring. I've felt more threatened by a bowl of cafeteria porridge than by you lamers."

Von Mellenthin stretched out a hand, palm up. "You count."

Von Seydlitz grinned, then held out one of his own. "Ready? One---two---three!"

Each of them clapped their open palms with their free hands in succession, three times. "_Brunnen_! _Papier_! _Schere_!" they yelled in unison. At the third smack, their hands paused. Von Mellenthin's was a fist, with an open hole in the center. Von Seydlitz's was holding two fingers outstretched.

The General smiled. "I win. Well beats scissors."

If he were capable, von Seydlitz would have pouted. "You always win at Well, Paper, Scissors."

"That's because you always play scissors. Block the door."

**Taunus Mountains, Hessen, Central Europe**

**November 10, 0087 **

The eight members of the Commonality met, as they usually did, while their physical forms slept.

"This is an unforeseen event. The three are mending their rifts faster than anticipated," commented one of the Commonality.

"It should not have been a surprise. Their past is long together," mentioned another. It was becoming more and more difficult for the eight to see the Pattern, and this was intolerable to them.

"Do we dare risk intervention? Their minds are weaker than our own."

"Negative," spoke the oldest of their kind, and the most respected. "The Mellenthin-entity and the Seydlitz-entity are close enough to us that they would detect our intrusion into their consciousness. Our physical forms, even if fully developed, would still be no match for theirs, and even yet their Wills are enough to defend themselves from even the Commonality combined. The Antares-entity must be our intermediary, for he is most like us in fashion."

"The Lalah-entity warned us of beings like they," shuddered one of the others. "Hateful creations."

"And yet well-suited to their purpose. The human norms have progressed far with their ability to mold the stuff of life. It is only by luck that these are not yet as we are."

"But what of the data of our own Becoming? They possess it now. They can make others like us fashioned as they are!"

"I have no doubts that the Mellenthin-entity seeks to rule all of Man, and that he would use this data to accomplish that means. It is imperative that we prevent this before they take their newfound knowledge to those that made them."

"I concur. But I detect that the Antares-entity may yet exert some influence over the Mellenthin-entity. It is the Seydlitz-entity who worries me most. He seeks our destructions. He recognizes the danger in allowing us to mature."

"Perhaps destruction is not such a horrid fate," mused one of the others. "We could be one with the Lalah-entity then, as foreseen."

Some of the others murmured agreement, but the oldest of them spoke above them. "I have not yet completed what I have set out to see. It is apparent that by whatever means necessary, the species is progressing itself towards the next stage in consciousness, where the Lalah-entity and ourselves will exist as one. We must remain for a time longer. Our near-brethren waste their potential in this futile war over transience. All may yet perish, before this is over. All I do know is that something must be left when they pass. We cannot allow the Mellenthin-entity to murder the world, and then place beings like us in power over the normals. That is not the way of things to come."

"But we cannot oppose them! Their physical superiority cannot be matched by even the machine-Awakened, and their minds, while silent to each other, are still possessing of formidible defenses, enough that even the Lalah-entity could not have risked brushing them with the barest flicker of her being without being detected, even when she existed on this level of being. The Seydlitz-entity even threatened you with harm for trying to see his thoughts, and the memory of his reaction still leaves me _cold_." The Commonality extended itself to its miserable member, seeking to give it some solace.

The oldest nodded. "We cannot oppose them, no. But the normals can."

"Who? The normals that fall under the sway of the Mellenthin-entity are devoted to him, and would not dare threaten him. The normal called Margul seeks the death of the Antares-entity, but that would not rid the threat the Mellenthin-entity represents."

"Acknowledged, but there are other normals out there, who vastly outnumber the Mellenthin-entity and his people. We must place our faith in them, for they will all suffer if the Mellenthin-entity succeeds where the others failed."

"At least there are but two," commented one of the Commonality. "Imagine if the Fifteen had been here together."

"Yes, thank goodness for that blessing. There are only two to contend with, and the Antares-entity who is clothed in the blood of his victims."

One of the others postulated an idea. "Is there the chance of bringing another of the potentials into combat with them?"

"They are too far away to be of use. The timing that the Seydlitz-entity chose to free the Mellenthin-entity was perfectly advantageous for only themselves. We will have to wait, and watch, and survive, until the Pattern reveals itself again."

"The Lalah-entity said that we place ourselves in too great a danger by remaining near them. The Commonality dares too much. In the presence of these, they interfere with the Pattern and our ability to read it. They would dissolve it into static if they could but see it. As it is, their interference is damaging enough. They should never have come into being. Now we are all at risk."

"We assumed that risk when we Awoke. Even the norms would have us kill our own, the Seydlitz-entity said so. With whoever has us, we will be tools. With whoever has the data from the Institute, they will create more of us. Is it our destiny to be weapons?"

The rest of the Commonality murmured about that question. "It is known that some of us shall be. Our creators in the Institute alluded that our purpose was to fight the Titans and the machine-Awakened. It may be that none alive today will survive to see Man ascend. But better destruction than have the Mellenthin-entity as lord of all. Perhaps that is part of his foul plan, as well?"

"The Mellenthin-entity would say it was. But there may yet be another way for us to be free, but that too is the Mellenthin-entity's purview. Like it or not, we are at his mercy, inasmuch as anything can be. Our fates are his to control, for now."

At the words of their oldest, the Commonality grew silent, considering the possibilities. There were few options that did not spell death, or worse.

"Too soon," whispered the oldest of them. "It is all too soon. But they are not us yet, and with the normals' help, they never will be."

**Bonn, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe**

**November 10, 0087 **

The halls of Federation HQ were eerily silent, broken only by the bootheels of Titans Captain Garrett Sajer as he stomped his way up and down the hallways of the labyrinth that was the building, trying to work himself into enough fatigue to sleep. He was too wired to do so of his own volition, and he was not the kind of man to rely on sleeping pills to force unconsciousness upon himself. Besides, he was alone here now, with the exception of the on-duty guards, so he could travel the hallways at will if he wanted to.

_Balke, you shit. I'll enjoy tearing you apart once the Zeon are dead. No one humiliates me like that and gets away with it. Your days are numbered now, so I hope you spend them well._ It was no wonder he wasn't tired. He was too pissed off to sleep! And it was 0440 hours! And this was all Balke's fault!

Grinding his teeth in hate, he marched past the conference room where they had all spent far too many hours over the last twenty-four. A voice from inside of it made him halt and listen. When he heard it again, he reached for the door handles.

Inside, Camael Balke laid a standard Federation-issue blanket, dust-colored with "EFSF – European Command" emblazoned in white, over the sleeping form of Dorff, who was snoring in a chair in the back. The Captain smiled once, wondering how anyone could sleep through this entire freakish nightmare. He walked back down the steps to his little work area, littered with field reports and glossy still shots that were fresh off of the fax from Heidelberg and Lammersdorf. A few were even from Mannheim. He had been at work with a gold felt pen, circling this, scribbling that, all over the photos. The historian was still trying to identify the second face that had been in von Seydlitz's transmission. In the meantime, Balke himself was reviewing the transmissions, line at a time, looking for something, _anything_ that would help him figure out what the hell the bastards were up to.

A fifth of Bacardi was sitting on the table near a makeshift ashtray. The bottle, unlike the ashtray, was mostly empty. Also unlike the ashtray, the bottle had the remnants of friends strewn across several other desktops, and on the horseshoe table. It was testament to Balke's ability to control his functions despite copious amounts of ruinous alcohol that he was even able to walk, much less continue with his analysis of the transmissions, but even after hours of steadily abusing his physiology, he was still here. The Church raised a hardy drunk.

The doors opened, admitting Sajer into the room. Balke waved him over, after taking a long swig of the Bacardi. "You're up late, Sajer."

"I could say the same of you," Sajer actually sauntered towards Balke, glancing at the pictures as he passed them. "You're sloshed, Feddie."

"Naw, just getting warmed up. I said I couldn't make sense of this clusterfuck conscious _and _sober. I'm taking care of that 'sober' part. What brings you by?"

"Heard a noise in here. Figured it was you."

"Yeah, it's just me. You must've followed Mr. 'Black Eagle's siren song. I've put Dorff asleep with my harebrained reasonings. You up to staying to chat a while?" It was the best truce offer Balke could manage to admit he needed to make. As much as he despised the Titans, he needed Sajer to do what needed to be done.

Sajer almost laughed. "That I'm even having this conversation with you is nothing more than pity, Balke. I couldn't give two shits and a fuck about what the hell you're up to. In fact, I was thinking about kicking your ass before I walked in here."

Balke belched, then hiccuped. "You don't want to try that right now. I'd hate for everyone to know you got beat down by a drunk, much less stink up that pretty little uniform of yours when I perform the amazing feat called the 'technicolored yawn' right on your tunic. Just have a seat and talk with me for a bit. You've got nothing better to do than listen, anyway."

Not amused, Sajer sat, deciding to leave the fight for another time, despite the opportunity that had presented itself.

Balke tapped a button on the remote he was holding, and von Seydlitz's voice thundered through the room: "**_tell your weaklings and cowards to meet us in the place where one empire ended and another began._**"

The screen paused at the press of another button. "What do you make of that little statement, Sajer?"

The Titan tapped a finger against his nose. "No clue. I think he's a fucking psycho."

"Let's not give him that kind of leeway. It'd be easy to say he's a nutcase, but unfortunately he's not. I dunno, something about that sentence is bugging the hell out of me, and I'm probably going to have to drop acid to figure out why."

Sajer rolled his eyes slyly. "So what you're saying is that you've been here mulling over that one stupid, nonsensical sentence. You're a waste of time, Balke. They should have left you wherever they'd put you."

"Like I haven't heard _that_ tune before," Balke said, not even getting offended. He was way too drunk to care. "Check these out. This batch came from Heidelberg. So far, we've got three _Kaempfer_-types, a pair of _Gelgoog_-types, a pair of _Zaku_-types. Then there's the three _Dom_-types that hit Mannheim and punked your people." Balke reached over to another desk and slapped a piece of paper off of its surface, setting it down on top of the photos. "From Lammersdorf, one of the few survivors of the platoon that was stationed there. According to her, there were three _Gelgoog_-types there, too. That makes thirteen suits, not nine."

"Your point?"

"Their numbers are bigger than we thought. Better than company strength already, and the report from Heidelberg says they had a big truck with them."

Sajer looked confused. "And?"

Balke exhaled with a sigh. "It means Cramer's people will have more of a fight than they're counting on, if they fight at all."

"'At all'?"

"I'm not convinced they're going to Berlin yet, much less Magdeburg. If they were going to Berlin, why go north from Heidelberg? Why not catch the eastbound towards Nuremberg, then hitch up to Leipzig?"

Sajer glanced at the map. "Less cover? The Odenwald ends at Heilbronn. After they get done crossing the Frankenhoehe range, they're in the open between Ansbach and Bayreuth until they hit the Frankenwald. That's a big piece of Lower Bavaria."

"Good thinking, but I doubt they'd care. So we get to spy on them for a while before they vanish again, big fucking whoop. They shot down a news copter with that _Zaku Cannon_ near Lorsch, so it's obvious they don't want to be watched too closely, but they left the others alone."

"Okay," Sajer was actually getting into this, "so they went north. That gives them the Odenwald-Spessart-Rhon ranges to play in until they hit the Thuringerwald. Same deal. It's easier than Connect-the-Dots."

"Maybe," Balke sounded skeptical. "This is, of course, if they _are_ going to Berlin."

Sajer was looking at the photos again. "Why'd you circle all these unit insignia?"

Balke smiled. "You ever go to a high school reunion?" When Sajer shook his head, Balke leaned back. "You go there thinking people change after a lot of time, and you especially go to see who used to make your life a shithole when you went. You know, the football hero jocks who liked flushing your head in a toilet, or the tough guy bikers who used to shove your head into a locker door just cause you were in the way, or the rich kid assholes that could charm or buy their way out of first-degree murders and felony rape charges. Those dicks. Anyway, you go there thinking that maybe because you're bigger and badder now than when you were back then, maybe they'd be feeling a little guilty because it's like 'Wow, look at you now!' and all that noise. But then you see them, and aside from the fact that they're all older, they all still look the same to the mind's eye, and they're still the same assholes they used to be."

Balke jabbed a finger at the photos. "These guys are just like all the pricks from the high school reunion. Still the same assholes, and they look the same, too. They're all marked with the gold eagle on the Zeon symbol, the unit patch for the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_. Okay, now let's look at the unit heraldry. The two _Zakus_ are sporting the black eagle with the rifle and axe of the 358th Light Assault, von Seydlitz's old battalion. The _Kaempfers_ are wearing the horned devil of the 2nd Shock Battalion. The pissed-off rhino on the Heidelberg _Gelgoogs_ is the 22nd Marine's flair. The _Doms_ that did the Mannheim job were a mixed bag, a 22nd Marine and then two of the little angry-eyed wind funnels that were the hallmark of the 15th Fast Attack. The Lammersdorf _Gelgoogs_ didn't get pictures taken."

"Sounds like they're your old pals. You knew that already."

"What I didn't know was _this_," Balke tapped a finger on a photo, showing a _Kaempfer_. "Check that one out."

"It's got a third mark. What the hell is it?"

"That's a skinned man, screaming. That's an ace's mark, like Char Aznable's golden clef, or Shin Matsunaga's white wolf's head. That one's for Commander Vladimir Margul, Battalion CO of the 2nd Shock, called the 'Grimravers'."

"'Demon' Margul? I thought he was—"

"--Dead, yeah. Looks like he's not. Between him, von Seydlitz, and von Mellenthin, that's three aces in their gang. THREE."

Even Sajer wasn't dumb enough to not shiver at the thought. He'd heard the stories of aces like Norris Packard and Anavel Gato, and what one determined ace could do to a group of greens and even veterans. "'Demon' Margul. Unbe-fucking-lievable. The guy who murdered a bus full of kids in Dornbirn, at the Rhine crossing."

Balke was impressed. "You've been studying?"

Sajer actually smirked. "'Know your enemy' and all that horseshit. Major Tizard put me up to it."

"He the Titans bigwig here?"

"Yeah."

Balke finished the bottle of Bacardi in one last, long pull. "I hope he's top-notch. I don't think we're getting any more help from the Federation."

Sajer looked insulted. "Of course he's good! That's why he's a Titan, and a Major at that!"

"Just cause it's got tits doesn't means you want to snuggle with it."

"What the shit is _that_ supposed to mean?"

Balke held his hands up. "I'm just hoping he's as good as he has to be. I'm not like Colonel Edgrove, Sajer. I know we're going to need the Titans for this job. I think Cramer's going to lose, hardcore, and then we'll have to call you guys in to do this. I hope that brigade is enough."

Sajer crossed his arms. "Between the GMs and the _Hizacks_, we'll fucking murder them."

"Let me get something off my chest here, Sajer. You know why Edgrove's kinda wishy-washy about these guys? Because he was at Metz, but you knew that already. You ever study what a beat-up brigade of Zeeks did to the 9th Army, before the last push? They sucked the bulk of six divisions into that rattrap and butchered them. The final assault on the city was done by a mixed unit of the leftovers of those six divisions that they folded into each other to make other divisions. Remember that, when you fight them."

"We're Titans, not Federal regulars. We won't lose."

"Figured you'd say something like that. Oh, well, I was hoping that maybe in Android School, they taught you stuff about how to survive, not die screaming for your mother."

Sajer actually leaned forward. "Only how to kill bitches like you, Balke."

Balke pouted. "And here we were getting along so well."

The Titan stood. "It's not going to matter a bit when we get these Spacenoid scum, Balke. They're owned and don't know it yet, and it doesn't matter what the hell they are, gene-freaks or not!"

"That's as good an epitaph as any. I'll try and spell your name right when I'm having the headstone carved."

Sajer waved a hand in the air, like a slap. "Forget it. I'm leaving you here with your half-assed obsessions and your drunken delusions. Try not to slip into a coma and miss the war, _Captain_."

"Try not to slip a dick between your lips and forget to charge, _Captain_. And don't forget to have your people track down that freighter registry and scope out the mobile suit companies, _especially Anaheim_!"

Sajer slammed the doors behind him.

"You wanna know what the shitty thing about all this is?" asked Balke to the air of the room. "I still don't know how the bastards got to Heidelberg in the first place."


	14. Chapter 13

**MSG: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed **

**Chapter 13**

**Taunus Mountains, Hessen, Central Europe**

**November 10, 0087**

The first sound that woke Commander Karl Weissdrake from his very comfortable slumber was a yowl. His eyes snapped open as the horrendous squalling continued, and his heart raced from the shock of going from REM sleep to full wakefulness in the space of a breath. The soldier in him blinked once then shifted his eyes to his watch, checking the time. It took a second for him to register the chronometric reading: 1030 hours. He sat bolt upright in bed, then threw the field blanket off himself and scrambled into his uniform at light speed, cursing himself.

He and his fellow 555th Airborne members had not found the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_'s staging area until about 0500 hours, after being delayed en route by circumstances beyond their control. Now he had overslept, as had probably the Foxe twins, and he was sure to catch hell for that. The watch duty person at the time the three _Gelgoogs_ had lumbered into the camp, Gary van Allen, had duly informed him that Major General von Mellenthin and Colonel von Seydlitz had bedded down for the night three hours before his arrival, and would speak with him in the morning at promptly 0730. Weissdrake was three hours late, and even Commander's tabs would not protect him from getting a boot stuffed somewhere uncomfortable in his anatomy.

He finished the last fastenings on the outer jacket, pulled the last glove over his burned left hand, and flung himself out of the officer's tent, breath steaming in the chill air of winter. His eyes found the source of the unearthly screeching that had woken him in the first place, and he almost spat his teeth out in scorn. Antares de la Somme was outside, in the snow-covered woods, stripped to the waist and wiping himself down with a rag. The water in the bowl on the camping table in front of him did not look the least bit warm, but the little wretch didn't seem to mind. In fact, the ace was _singing_, like he took cold-water baths all the time. To make matters even more bizarre, he was the only person outside their tent, and no one else was to be seen. Weissdrake winced as the tenor voice hit a pitch in the song and cracked badly, and he resisted the urge to moan in misery.

"'Mon-_EY!!'_" squawked the smaller pilot, dipping the rag into the bowl and spreading it out with both hands. "'It's a _crime!!_ _Share _it_ fair_-ly but don't take a slice of _myy_ _PIE! MONEY!!_ Bum-bum-_bum! _So they saay!'" The next piece of the song was thankfully muffled and garbled as de la Somme buried his face in the dripping rag and scrubbed harshly. "'Eh the oot o aw _eul uuay! Ut ih oo as ur uh aiz iz oh urpraz aht ehr---_'"he took the rag away from his face and continued, "'_giving none away! Away! Awayyy!!'"_

"_SHUT THE FUCK **UP**, ANTARES, YOU FUCKING **LOONY!!**_" That was Margul, bellowing as loud as he could from the inside of one of the other tents.

De la Somme huffed. "Up yours, _turnip dick_!" he called back, managing to say it sing-songishly and scathing at the same time. Then he turned and saw Weissdrake. "Mornin', Karl. I hope _you_ can appreciate a little Floyd this fine German day." He tossed the rag back into the bowl, shivering as the cold water oozed down his chest and back, dripping from the silver chain around his neck.

"I'd appreciate it more if it were fine Floyd on this fine German day. Please tell me there's coffee." De la Somme pointed at a steaming black cast-iron pot on a propane burner. "You're my god."

"Don't let God hear you say that, _mein Freund_. He might get jealous and strike me down with cruddy looks and a bad singing voice," the ace pilot wriggled into his shirt, but not before Weissdrake noticed some red marks and darkening bruises on de la Somme's torso and back.

"Well, we can't have _that_, now can we?" Weissdrake cupped the metal mug in both hands, mindful of his bad left hand, sipping gratefully as he sat down on a wooden stool/seat. "You the only one up yet?"

"Yeah, so far. The bums haven't had the nuts to stick anything but their tongues out in the temperature today. 'Sides, I lost the coin toss, so I _had_ to get up early." He turned his head. "_Up and at 'em, hosers!! Nappy time be over, you hear!?_" Groans and curses trickled out at de la Somme, and he smiled widely. "They love me. If Vlady didn't get 'em up, I just did."

"What happened to the 0730 meeting?"

De la Somme blinked. "Uhhh, _what_ 0730 meeting? Deet and Reinhardt aren't even awake yet. Well, they are _now_, but you get the drift."

"But I was told---" the muffled sounds of laughter were coming from one of the enlisted men's tents, and Weissdrake leaned back in the seat to yell, "I hope your mother is sucking a Side 6 cock _right now_, van Allen!"

The laughter intensified. "Your mother _has_ a cock, Commander, sir!" called back van Allen from the confines of the tent.

"If she does, your mother's sucked it!" retorted Weissdrake, grinning in spite of having been had by the Marine.

"Nice comeback, Karl," said de la Somme dryly. "But Marines don't _have_ mothers that weren't _issued_ to them with their toiletries in Basic!"

"Bite it, de la Somme!" called out Lucien McKenna. "At least we know what toiletries _are!_"

De la Somme clapped his hands together and rubbed them. "Ooo, I think I hit a nerve on yon Lieutenant," then louder, "Yeah, that's real good coming from a guy who the Corps taught to confuse standard-issue toothpaste with Preparation H!"

"Fucking Army queers can't even spell 'standard'!" Van Allen again.

"Can _too!_" barked de la Somme. "'Ess'-'tee'-'andard'! How's that?"

"Yeah, that was a big word, Commander. Sorry to make you work on that one."

"Well, damn! I guess I'm just not fit to be Marine material without a plaque-free, cavity-free, minty-smelling ass, now am I?"

Marine Captain Roberts clambered out of his tent and stretched, not looking particularly happy with the whole situation. "I'd like to speak for the rest of the company in thanking the walking Hostess Twinkie commercial known as Commander de la Somme for rousing us with his caterwauling, witty banter, and knowledge of what the human rectum should smell like on a real man. You are officially the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_'s 'Asshole with Arms'." Then Roberts threw a wet stick at him before stomping off to go do Marine things.

Van Allen couldn't respond, he was too busy laughing, along with everyone else. Weissdrake took a sip of coffee to keep from falling out laughing himself.

"Well, the next time Professor Sneer or the Mad Deserter cuts off the Hostess supply to _his_ colony, he can just call Captain Marvel or someone else to throw Fruit Pies at them to stop their dastardly plan, cause I won't pick up the phone for _his_ ass." De la Somme plucked the stick from his shoulderblade and tossed it away before he poured himself a mug, which would only add to his hyperactivity.

"So," he said, after securing the hot mug in his cold fingers, "what happened to you guys last night? I heard you thump on in about 0500 or so, way late."

"Ran into a column of mechanized infantry reservists before we reached the Koblenz crossing. Had to stop and skoosh a few."

"'Skoosh'?" de la Somme's grin got bigger. "I like that!"

"Keep it, then. What happened to you?"

De la Somme looked a bit confused, before Weissdrake clarified the question with: "The marks."

"Oh! I got snooty with Deet and Reinhardt, and they grabbed me and tickle-tortured me until I was squealing like a pig. Most of the marks're from me trying to get away. Talk about futile struggling."

"You must have deserved it. You always do."

"Yeah, but they're both scuzzballs anyway," smirked de la Somme. "What were those reservists doing there, anyway?"

"Looked like they were coming back from a maneuvers exercise. They didn't have anything heavier than a few antitank missiles and machine cannons on their APCs. It was easy, but it took a little time."

"Twins okay?"

"Yes. They scratched our paint, but nothing more than that. We probably could have simply sped past them, but after the ease that Lammersdorf was, why not have a little fun in the meantime?"

"Because," came a voice from behind them as von Seydlitz stepped out of the command tent, "it was not part of the plan, _Kommandant_."

Weissdrake stood and saluted. "No, sir, it wasn't. But no plan survives contact with the enemy, sir."

Von Seydlitz waved a hand. "Do not quote von Moltke to me, Karl, and please be at ease. In fact, pour me a mug of that coffee. Thank you for fixing it, Antares. I trust there is not anything untoward in its contents."

De la Somme snorted. "Naw, ran out of LSD before I could slip some in, sorry."

"Pity," For von Seydlitz, it was almost humor. "_Generalmajor_ von Mellenthin will be out in a moment. We decided to let everyone sleep in. This is not the War, after all," he took the mug from Weissdrake's hand in his own ungloved one, as if the heat did not matter.

As if anticipating the next question, de la Somme piped up, "The kids are all still here, Colonel. I checked on them myself. Should I get breakfast going now?"

"_NO_!" yelled Margul, staggering out of his tent, eyes swollen from sleep. "I'll do it! Please, sir, don't let HIM cook!"

"I am inclined to agree, _Kommandant_ Margul. Antares, let Margul cook. You could find a way to burn water."

"Underappreciated! That's ALL I am around here!" huffed de la Somme haughtily.

Weissdrake grinned. "At least we pay attention to you." Weissdrake was paying attention to von Seydlitz. He looked a bit battered, with the remains of bruises and contusions scattered on his face, but they were fading, almost visibly, and now looked like they were week-old. He mused over what those were about, but decided not to ask.

"_Oberst_!" called von Mellenthin from the command tent. "Send Weissdrake in here please!"

Von Seydlitz tilted his head towards the command tent. "Get moving, _Kommandant_."

Weissdrake finished the mug of coffee and walked to the command tent, rapping on the wooden sign as a means of announcement. "Enter," spoke von Mellenthin.

The General was just finishing pulling the last of his boots on and lacing them when Weissdrake saw him. Faster than he could remember, he dropped to a knee and bowed low. "My lord!" Weissdrake, too, was from New Koenigsberg, though not one of the ruling class.

"Rise and speak, Karl Weissdrake. Let me look at you." The last time von Mellenthin had seen Weissdrake, the man was a mummy of burn wrappings. He stepped closer to inspect the scarring that had destroyed half of Weissdrake's head. Weissdrake inspected the remains of a fight that were on von Mellenthin, and he put two and two together, managing not to smile. He wasn't one to voice an opinion about the actions of his rulers.

The Commander saw pity in von Mellenthin's blue eyes, and he almost fainted. Everyone else had grown so accustomed to his grotesqueness that they had become blind to it, but von Mellenthin had not. Under the crushing weight of his scrutiny, Weissdrake felt his world begin to collapse.

"P-please, my lord---!" _No! Don't leave me behind! Don't hate me!_ His own mind began to plead with God, the universe, anything to keep his fate from being ruined now. But he did not weep under the piercing sight of his Emperor, even when that Emperor placed a calloused hand on the burns on the left side of Weissdrake's head.

"It's not so bad, Karl. I think you can still get a date." Von Mellenthin clapped a hand on Weissdrake's shoulder, knowing that the burned man had feared this encounter for eight years. "In fact, anyone who can endure what you have and still _want_ to pilot a mobile suit into combat should be able to find suitable companionship anywhere he damn well wishes!"

Weissdrake exhaled a breath he did not even know he was holding. "Th-thank you, sir!"

"Rumor has it you can't count past eight without removing your shoes. Is that true?" asked von Mellenthin quietly.

"I still think in tens, sir." Weissdrake clenched his maimed left hand. "My abilities aren't hampered by my . . . condition, and I believe Lammersdorf proved that, sir."

Von Mellenthin smiled at him. "That's all I wanted to know. Have a seat. Tell me about these reservists you blundered into."

Weissdrake did sit, but did not relax. "Just bad luck, for them. Nothing vehicular survived, so anything that got away had to be on foot."

"And you're certain they were reserves and not Federal regulars?"

"Yes, sir. But I didn't stop to check bodies or anything. The beam weaponry of these _Gelgoogs_ doesn't leave much behind for evidence for study, sir."

"Fine, fine. How have the twins been holding up? Are they still speaking in synchronized sentences?"

Weissdrake nodded. Von Mellenthin smiled. "Good. The fewer things that change for the worse, the happier I am. I prefer to change things myself, rather than have them changed for me. I've made some alterations to Nemesis, Karl."

The Commander grinned as best he could. "This going to be a BB, sir?" "BB" was the initials for "Breakfast Briefing", a habit that had formed during the War, where everything happened at breakfast instead of later in the day. Von Mellenthin preferred a well-fed audience.

"More like a Brunch Briefing, _Kommandant_. It's a little late in the day to call it 'breakfast'. I'll tell everyone at the same time what evil design I have thus far fashioned for our enemies, but I wanted to see you in person, just you and I. I'm glad you've survived, Karl."

"You as well, sir." Noticing von Mellenthin beginning to rise, he quickly stood to his feet, saluting. Von Mellenthin returned it, then gestured towards the door.

Field rations. Everyone hated them, especially after having spent eight years without having to touch one. Most didn't eat more than a few bites, or just killed the accessories instead of the main entree, and stuck to general conversation and the coffee. Just like during the War, the enlisted men ate with the officers. Von Mellenthin was a big proponent of the "cafeteria communism" ethic that most Germans abided by, and from the lowest private to the biggest general, everyone in the unit ate together whenever possible. There was no rank differentiation when it came to mealtime in the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_.

"Goddammit!" raged Margul around biscuit. "That pretty boy La Vesta _would_ have the only person able to make this shit edible with him, wouldn't the fucker?" He had done his best to get these things fixed in a fashion at least remotely pleasant, but his own kitchen skills were about as gentle as his manners, even if he couldn't actually manage to burn water.

"Language, please, Commander," spoke Roberts quietly, table manners perfect as always.

"For once, Magilla, I've gotta agree," muttered de la Somme, dropping his fork and grimacing in disgust. "I say we kidnap Hemphill before we go to Berlin." He could kill for a doughnut or something at this stage. Thus far, the only people who seemed to be enjoying this horrid little field breakfast were von Mellenthin (who'd dealt with prison food), von Seydlitz (who would eat anything in front of him without an opinion), and the eight kids (who were a little freaky and didn't seem to care). He slid the rest of his re-hydrated eggs towards Erik, who had devoured his with the speed of a piranha. The boy grinned and tore into the offering, and de la Somme reached over and ruffled his hair affectionately.

Von Mellenthin cleared his throat as he wiped his lips with a napkin. "We're not going to Berlin."

The whole group went silent, stunned. "We're not, sir?" asked Weissdrake, eyebrow (the only one) quirking.

"No. Berlin is a front. Imagine trying to hold that location with just our suits, especially with a supply reserve as deep as my pinkie finger dipped into _Herren-Chiemsee_. I might be a felon, but I'm not insane, nor am I looking for another Metz. No, I have something else in mind, one the Feds aren't expecting. Clear the table."

A surface was rendered litterless, and von Mellenthin spread a glossy dry-erase map of Europe over it. "Now," he said once he'd gotten everyone's attention, "_Oberst_ von Seydlitz has done an admirable job making his own variation on the symphony I've composed, but I've found yet another twist to use. The way things have been laid out in Nemesis will not be enough to achieve the purpose for this Operation. Phases Three and Four have a gap in them that must be closed, and Phase Three will not get the reaction we desire from Herschel Cramer and his 103rd Company. Thus, I have added another chord to the stanza."

And his finger pointed to a place on the map.

"Mother of Zeon," breathed Captain Roberts quietly. "That's brilliant."

"I think that kick to the hive will stir our hornets sufficiently into rage," beamed von Mellenthin. "Phase Three goes into effect in a few hours. Phase Three-A will commence in forty hours. We should arrive on site for Phase Four and only have to wait a day for the victim to arrive just in time for his own murder."

"Not going to be an easy road, sir," mentioned Roberts, whose expertise at ground warfare was better than most people at this table. "The logistics situation reeks about this whole thing anyway. So if we aren't going to Berlin, where are we going, if I may ask?"

And von Mellenthin shifted his finger over the map, stopping at a precise location. "This will achieve Nemesis for us. _Oberst_ von Seydlitz, would you do the honor of informing Hauptfeldwebel La Vesta and his two associates about the change in plan?"

"Certainly, sir," There was a lot of "ooh"-ing and "ahh"-ing, and quiet murmurs, both worried and in admiration, as von Mellenthin detailed the rest of his idea of Phase Three-A. Von Seydlitz remained silent throughout it. He already knew what the plan was, since he and von Mellenthin had been up very late discussing exactly that. He had no objections. In fact, he was so glad to have the burden of overall command removed from him that von Mellenthin could have told him to go take Berlin _himself _and he would have had faith that it was all part of a larger scheme.

This scheme was larger than most, despite its small strategic objective.

The General continued. "In the meantime, let's get packed up and moving. One hour, people. I want to be marching in _one hour_. The children will be divided amongst the enlisted men, one in each suit. If there aren't enough enlisted men, give the rest to officers from the bottom-up. If they interfere in the operation of your mobile suit, shoot them. Motivate your asses, kids, and let's fight a motherfucking _war!!_"

De la Somme raised his hand as the others were clearing out and beginning to break down camp. "Uhh, excuse me, General, sir. Did you really mean _shoot them_?"

Von Mellenthin sighed. "No, _Kommandant_. Just make certain they behave themselves," and he turned his eyes on them, bringing the full force of his will to bear, "and _understand_."

One hour later, the camp was gone. From the cargo surface of the heavy-lift vehicle, two MS-07B3 _Gouf Customs_ arose, actuators whining as they awoke in the chillness of the air. One of them stepped off the vehicle, then snapped out with a kick, moving into motions that resembled stretching.

"Oooo, I'm _soooo_ sore!" complained de la Somme over the unit "push", voice intentionally gravelly as though simulating the sounds. His _Gouf Custom_ bent over to touch its toes. Deliberately, de la Somme pointed the _Gouf Custom's _ass at Margul's _Kaempfer_. Then, as it straightened, he made the massive mobile suit wiggle. "But damn, I'm still sexy."

"_Rough night, Commander?_" asked Ogun from his _Dom Tropen_, which looked a bit like the hunchback of Notre Dame with the torso of an old _Zaku_ F-type strapped to its back, awkward over the thruster pack and the 880mm bazooka and heat saber. Kerr's _Dom Tropen_ and McKenna's _Dom_ also had _Zaku_ torsos attached to their suits. This would slow them immensely, but left them the fastest moving ground suits despite the added tonnage and inefficient thruster configurations. Taking the old _Zakus_ had been von Seydlitz's idea, in a "waste-not, want-not" sort of way.

"Yeah, your mom's getting so _violent_ towards me these days," he laughed aloud. Erik, sitting behind him in the narrow confines of the cockpit, smiled. De la Somme had insisted on Erik riding with him.

With that, the ace's _Gouf Custom_ walked towards its spot, passing the shorter _Kaempfer_ and flashing the star-and-sword symbol across its mono-eye, which flared red as if angered. The _Kaempfer's _fingers tapped the butt of one of its assault shotguns.

The second _Gouf Custom_, black eagle of Prussia emblazoned on its breast, stood aside and watched the third suit rise from the carrier. No grandstanding necessary with that one to proclaim its lethality. Like its pilot, it thought ostentation to be tantamount to compensation for a lack of self-esteem.

Command antenna jutting proudly above its head, camouflaged like the others of the 10th Panzerkaempfer, the MS-06-R1A _Zaku II High-Mobility_ stood to its full height. The lion rampant of Hessen was stenciled on its breastplate, the first suit to bear it since Metz. Forsaking the 120mm autocannon that had been the hallmark of the _Zaku_, this one carried the MMP-80 90mm, like the other suits did. In fact, it had two of them. A 280mm bazooka and a heat hawk were stored on its waist armor. Grenades dangled from the skirting. Thrusters jutted from its lower legs, which would grant it great speed and maneuverability. The backpack was also upgraded from the original _Zaku_. With all the alterations, it resembled nothing less than a riced-up _Zaku_ with an attitude. While not as advanced as some of the other suits in the 10th's contingent, Shin 'White Wolf of Solomon' Matsunaga had piloted a _Zaku Hi-Mo_ with great success during the War, as had Side 3 Air Defense ace Eric Mansfield and even Anavel 'Nightmare of Solomon' Gato; and no one here in the mountains of Germania dared entertain the thought that Dietrich 'Hessian Lion' von Mellenthin was getting the short shaft in his mobile suit. His record spoke for itself.

"_This_," said von Mellenthin proudly, "_is just too_ cool." The suit moved forward a few steps, then spun around much faster than any normal _Zaku_ could hope to manage, and the MMP-80 barked once, destroying the heavy-lift carrier in a fireball that vaporized the snow around it and flash-melted the ice from the trees.

"_Let's march. Single file formation, rough terrain pattern_," said von Mellenthin, eminently satisfied. If he could have leapt with glee inside the _Zaku Hi-Mo_, he would have. "Kaempfers_ on point_, Gelgoogs_ at six. Radio discipline from this point on. Let's go tell the Feds just what we think of their lack of vision._"

It began to rain as the sixteen Zeon mobile suits began their journey northward.

**Bonn, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe**

**November 10, 0087 **

Lucas Edgrove was in a room he thought he would never have to use. He kicked himself for not making use of it sooner, but not for its intended purpose. It was remarkably peaceful, dark, and quiet, unlike nearly every other room at Federation Headquarters, Bonn. Here there was the gentle tapping of keys, dim lights from the screens that covered three of the four walls of the room, and the near-whispers of voices of the five people who spent most of their waking moments down here. This was the SatInt room, and it was like a sanctuary from the madness outside to Edgrove.

It was from this location that satellite imagery and telemetry was fed from nodes across Earth to European Command, where it was collated for use in area-strategic planning. It was the eyes in the sky room, where far from any danger to HumInt, or human intelligence assets, one could keep watch over one's territory and devise means with which to harm one's foes. Unfortunately, this was Europe, the land of the least danger, and the amount of imaging data and SatInt RealTime capability was poor. In fact, the Federation (and the Titans), only ever had but one satellite positioned over the entirety of the European continent, and it was an old one with only the most basic of capabilities.

Edgrove was frustrated to discover that he would know precisely what was happening in Ulan Bator, Mongolia, but not be able to see what was happening across the Rhine river, right outside the window and down the road a few blocks from European HQ. The screen that had been designated for European affairs was a mess, a jumble of writhing colors and blackness, or swaths of dark gray and white.

"Is this the best you can do?" he asked the Tech Sergeant at the screen, tugging one of the headphones away from the ear to speak into.

The Tech Sergeant looked miserable. "Yes, sir, I'm afraid so. This ancient bird hasn't got eyeballs good enough to penetrate the cloud cover for visuals. We never have visual over Europe in winter."

_Which is exactly when the Zeeks hit us, damn them. _"What about IR?"

"Useless, sir. Europe's too densely populated. I can't even distinguish Captain Cramer's suits from the rest of the heat sources in Magdeburg, much less anywhere else. With IR, it's almost _too_ sensitive. This thing picks up automobiles, fireplaces, central heating environmentals, the works, and they all bleed together into masses of heat as opposed to single sources. Hell, it would pick up fireworks, but not be able to tell me if it was a firework or a brush fire."

Edgrove leaned forward. "What about Minovsky radiation?"

The Tech Sergeant shook his head. "This thing couldn't tell through it. Besides, they'd have to be giving off incredible density to be spotted by this old satellite."

"No, Sergeant, I meant track them by the _lack_ of data."

"Like using IR to find cold spots instead of hot? Doubtful, sir. There's a lot of Europe, and plenty of things use Minovsky particles these days. I'll keep trying for you, sir, but I can't guarantee a thing with the rains and snows and cloud coverage."

"Then keep at it. Tell me if anything comes up." He patted the Sergeant on the shoulder and replaced the headphone, leaving quietly.

Rather than return to his office, he decided to spend a little time on the balcony of the second floor of the building. Usually, it was where the smokers went, but Camael Balke had changed all that. Edgrove simmered about what he had been forced to grant to Balke in return for his assistance. Even after all of that, Edgrove could not stand the man. Certainly, he was an excellent asset, and a capable officer, but was he really worth the cost? Only time would tell. Besides, despite his hideous sense of manners and etiquette, he made a wonderful foil against Sajer, and anything that tripped Sajer up was okay in Edgrove's book.

Still, the man's utter disregard for protocol was not only vexing, it was downright pissing Edgrove off. The Quartermaster had finally dug up a Captain's uniform with the appropriate dimensions and shoved Balke into it. Balke had complained that the newness made it too tight and that it needed to be "broken in". So the awful creature took his brand new uniform, and himself, found the nearest appreciable hill with a lot of snow and water on the grass, walked to the top of it, lay himself flat on the sodden ground, and then _rolled_ himself down the hill. After three runs, he had declared the uniform officially "broken in" and quite comfortable, despite it looking like he'd been in a trench for a month. Edgrove almost strangled him.

At least the place was quieter now that Balke was gone. He and his aide Dorff had commandeered a fast scout car with extended range fuel tanks earlier in the day, to check on a report from Koblenz about an infantry battalion running afoul of three _Gelgoog_-type mobile suits. Edgrove almost slapped himself, thinking that it was crude to consider the loss of perfectly good troops as an excuse to get Balke out of his hair. At any rate, despite Search and Rescue arriving on the scene first, Balke had left several hours ago, and had not been heard from since. And no one had seen Sajer all day. Edgrove figured he'd taken the shuttle to Lyons to confer what Balke had told them with Tizard.

It disturbed Edgrove greatly that the Titans seemed to care more about Nemesis than the Federation did. Earlier this morning, he'd been forced into an odious conversation with his superiors in Lhasa, or Dakar, or whatever new pesthole the Federation Assembly had found to hide in from the AEUG. They had informed him that Dietrich von Mellenthin and the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ Division was a European problem, therefore Edgrove's problem, and therefore not _their_ problem. Edgrove had done his best not to screech like a bat at the old bastards, explaining to them just how explosive the situation truly was. The Assembly hadn't even blinked when Edgrove clued them in on the loss of the eight NewType experiments. They told him to deal with it as best he could, but there would be no assets or reinforcements arriving forthwith. Europe, for all intents and purposes, was on its own.

Except for the Titans.

He stared out across the few blocks to the river. A large boat was slowly passing by, and he stared at it, mind elsewhere. He hoped fervently that Cramer could do the impossible like he advertised and take the Zeeks down. The only good news he'd had thus far was that with the exception of the Koblenz _Gelgoogs_, there had been no further incidents or injuries, and the people he had sent out to hunt for the delivery devices for Nemesis had reported finding nothing thus far. Balke's theory that there was no Nemesis was looking a bit true, but if so, why the deception except to cause fear? What was the true purpose of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_?

His phone buzzed, tearing his thoughts away from their course. With the main nexus at Lammersdorf down, everyone had taken to using cell phones with their monopole programming instead of the faster and more reliable satellite lines. He reached into his trouser pocket for it.

**Koblenz, Rheinland-Pfalz, Central Europe**

**November 10, 0087 **

The smell reached them first. It was the unmistakable stench of burned flesh, scorched earth, seared rubber, oil, and steel, and cordite from weapons fire. It was a reek that signified only one thing, and that was a lot of war, and a lot of death, and a lot of devastation. It looked worse than it smelled, which was no comfort to either of the new arrivals on the scene.

"Wait here, Dorff," said Camael Balke as he leapt out of the scout car and ran towards the blackened site of the attack. The place was a disaster, littered with the charred remains of staff cars, infantry fighting vehicles, and corpses. He looked around, trying to take it all in. "The sons of bitches," he whispered, fighting the urge to light a cigarette amongst the blazed remains.

Search and Rescue people were everywhere, along with local authorities, also trying to make sense of this slaughter. He glanced at faces until he found one who looked like he was in the know.

"Excuse me," he said to the Lieutenant, "I'm Captain Balke from Bonn HQ. You in charge here?"

The lieutenant was good enough not to bother saluting. "No, sir. The Captain's over there." He pointed up a hill. "You'll wanna talk to him about this."

"Thanks, Lieutenant." Balke stalked up the hill towards a group of people, who looked to be in the depths of quite the meeting. At their center was a skinny, younger man with sand-colored hair and a lot of freckles. Balke recognized him and grinned. "HEY, _BRAK!!"_

At the shout, the man's head swiveled and locked on Balke instantly. His jaw dropped open. "Sweet Jesus have mercy!" he yelled back, incredulous.

Balke kept walking towards him. "Yeah, He'd better! Someone told me that the caboose on the man train was in charge, and lo and behold, here you are!"

The two men faced each other from a distance of about eight feet. Captain Braxton Bryton stared daggers at Camael Balke, and Balke wasn't entirely sure if Bryton was going to slug him or kiss him. In all honesty, it looked like Bryton wasn't certain which to do, either.

"You evil fiend. How did you manage to slither your way back into that uniform?" hissed Bryton, smile intact despite the vehemence in his voice.

"I sweet-talked Edgrove into giving it me. He never could tell me 'No' over anything."

"You working for Bonn now?" Now they were about two feet from each other.

"Yep." Balke could see the sense of duty warring with the anger in his old friend's eyes. He hoped his own weren't vacillating.

After a moment, Bryton reached out a hand. "Then you're in charge. Welcome back to Hell, Camael."

Balke clasped it in his own, matching Bryton's grip precisely. "Never really left it, Brak."

After a long, silent moment, Bryton dragged Balke into a hug, a painful one. "It's good to see you after so long, _Captain_ Balke, but I haven't forgotten . . . or forgiven yet."

Balke winced as Bryton's fingers dug into his back. "How're those demons you 'put behind you a long time ago'? Bet you were thinking this shit couldn't get any deeper, weren't you?"

Bryton released him, nauseated to admit that Balke had been right. "I hate you."

"I hate you, too, but you're still my bitch, and you know it." 'Smarmy' was the only word to describe Balke's little grin.

"What are you _doing_ here?" No more witty banter for Bryton. He'd had enough.

Aside from their abortive phone conversation several months ago, Braxton Bryton had not spoken to Camael Balke since his trial. Bryton, a very young Second Lieutenant during the War, was one of the few people to survive Bayreuth and the destruction of the 4th Cavalry, and his testimony had helped keep Balke out of jail. Balke had been his mentor and best friend, but their ways had parted after the trial when Bryton had argued for him to keep fighting to stay in the uniform after Balke had given up, and Balke had resigned himself to losing that fight.

"I'm on the von Seydlitz job, old comrade of mine. I'll tell you the rest later, but I'm pretty sure the suits that hit this column were 10th _Panzerkaempfer_. Any survivors?"

Bryton nodded, all business now. "Yes, about a dozen out of the battalion. Only one of them's come out of shock enough to talk about it. They're just reserves, so go easy on them. They tried to fight back where anyone else would have run for the hills, you and me included."

"Shit, Brak, you make it sounds like I'm Inquisition or something. I just want to find out if anyone got a look at the markings on those suits. _Gelgoogs_, right?"

"Seems to be," Bryton led him to the group. "Folks, I've just been nominally relieved of command. This is Captain Camael Balke, come all the way from Bonn to talk to you about what happened. I'm going to go coordinate down there, so tell him what you know, same way you told me."

"Balke?" queried one of the other Federal officers, wearing a SAR badge. He spat. "Guess every chickenshit can score a desk job these days."

Bryton flared up, and his fists clenched. "You son of a---!"

Balke put a hand on his shoulder. That was typical of Bryton. He could hate your guts to the point of insanity, but he would be damned if anyone else cut in on that action without having earned it. "It's okay, Brak. It don't mean nothing. Get your job done, and I'll handle this."

With a warning glare at the man who'd spoken the insult and at Balke, Bryton stalked away and down the hill. Balke made sure he'd gone some distance before speaking. "Okay, I might've deserved that. I'll let it slide this time. Like me or not, it's my word that goes to Edgrove, so unless you want to spend the rest of your careers shining some Titan's boots or bobbing on one's knob, I suggest you stop playing fuck-around with me."

Silence was his answer, and so he continued: "Now, you with the snappy threads, start talking. I want to know everything."

"Master Sergeant Rogers, _sir_. Commander, Type 74 number one-oh-nine, 77th Reserve Infantry Battalion, _sir._"After a bitter moment, the older NCO, whose uniform was a disaster of mud, water, blood, and black scorch marks and soot smears, nodded at Balke's pocket. His eyes had the thousand-yard stare, and his hands were trembling. "Got a smoke, _sir_?"

Balke fished a cigarette out, then snagged one for himself. He lit them both, and let the man smoke for a minute. Everyone else figured that if they were smoking, why not? Soon, the top of the hill looked like a powwow. "Tell me what you can, Sergeant. I'm listening."

"We were coming off of three days in the hills near Bad Kissingen, doing live-ammo field maneuvers, heading back to our staging area near Maastricht, Belgium. We'd been on the road for two days, keeping to the back roads so we wouldn't stop up traffic. The company CO thought it was a good idea. We get through Koblenz, no problem, and we're coming up on the crossroad at Ruebenach when one of our point cars stops and cuts his engine. The guy in back's yelling his ass off that he's heard something. We all think he's dicking around with us, and the company CO's screaming at him to get his ass back in the car and get moving again. The guy's going bugfuck, okay, like nothing I've ever seen before. He's a fucking acoustical tile specialist out in 'the world', you know, and the CO's telling him _he's_ fucking hearing things? I'm in the fourth truck down, and the guy goes running past, still screaming at the CO to get the armor off the road and make a break for it because there's a mobile suit ahead of us. I don't know what to think, except this guy's freaking out and his car's holding up the whole column.

"That's when I look up, and the only thing I see is this . . . _eye_. Big and red, just like they show you in the training vids. And then there are two more of them, and they just come out _of nowhere_. I know it's dark out, no moon with the cloud cover, back roads with nothing to see by but our night lights and lowlight viewers, but I'm telling you I never saw or heard a damn thing until they were right in _front_ of us. Bigger than hell and blacker than night. They came out of the treeline, I guess, like fucking _ghosts_. I've never been so scared in my whole goddamn life. They draw heat and I start moving. The CO's screaming bloody murder in the radio, and the suits open fire on the column. They had beam weapons. We didn't. You can guess how it turned out."

The hand holding the cigarette was seriously shaking, and the man put the cigarette to his lips to steady it. "My driver's praying to God in the front seat. I smack him on the side of the helmet and he stomps the accelerator. My gunner's leaning on the 20 mike-mike, hosing those suits but not even slowing them down. _I'm_ praying by this point, because the vulc's the only weapon my damn Type 74's got, and it's not doing a damn thing. Jack must've unloaded the whole magazine into them, all couple of thousand rounds. _Nothing_. My sonar runner's on the radio trying to get ahold of _someone_, but there's nothing but static because that's what _every_-fucking-_body's_ doing. Someone in one of the IFVs caps off a cluster of antitank missiles. They splatter on the armor of the suits, and that's when they get mad, and they're all over us, mixing it in with the rest of the column. They start killing the heavies first, then the troop carriers. Mike crashes our truck into a fucking IFV that cut in front of us trying to get enough room to use its missiles. I jump off, and the whole world goes white from behind me, and I'm on my ass. Last thing I remember seeing was one of the suits kicking over the command car. The CO's body goes flying out of it like a rag doll, and the car lands on him. After that, I don't know. I don't know how long I was out, but when I woke up, the whole column's burning, my truck and my crew are all fried, and I'm on fire, with a torn knee ligament, shrapnel holes in a dozen places, and a world of hurt. But I'm better off than most of these other sad souls. Painkillers can't do a thing for them now."

The man looked up at Balke. "But I saw 'em. Zeeks. Zeek markings, Zeek suits. _Gelgoogs_, all three of them. Had a marking on the leg, I saw it in the light of those damn rifles. Three little coins, all triangle-like, with a parachute on them, like it was holding them up, you know? The coins had little black number 5's in them." The man shook his head from side to side slowly, beyond the reach of grief. "I'll never fucking forget it."

Balke removed the pack of cigarettes from his pocket and tossed them at the shell-shocked reservist. "Here. You need them more than I do."

The reservist clutched the pack gratefully. "Tell me you're going to get those sons of bitches! Tell me that's what you're here for!"

Balke could see desperation in his eyes, and untapped grief as well. He'd seen that look before, in his own eyes, and he did his best not to wince at the memory.

"Yeah, that's the idea. Thanks for the help." Balke turned and left, having gotten what he needed to know. He snagged the stupid little cell phone from his jacket pocket and speed-dialed Edgrove as he walked down the hill. "Colonel? It's Balke. Classify the three Lammersdorf _Gelgoogs_ as 555th Airborne. I've just gotten confirmation."

"How bad is it?" asked Edgrove.

"Bad, sir. Real bad. They tore the reservists apart."

"Find out why?"

"I think it was a mistake. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time. They caught the _Gelgoogs_ coming off of the Lammersdorf run, and it was just bad luck. Listen, Braxton Bryton's here playing kiss-ass with SAR. I'm kidnapping him for my staff."

"Like hell you are!" snapped Edgrove. "You leave him right where he is! I'm not going to let you walk off with half my fucking people for your case, Balke! The Federation has other concerns than the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_, and that's final!"

"Tough, _sir_. Deal with it," Balke hung up before Edgrove could sputter out another protest. He approached Bryton and grabbed him in a headlock. "Guess what, Brak? You're working for me again."

Bryton struggled free. "Am not! I'm on permanent assignment with the SAR people."

"Not anymore. I just convinced Edgrove to release you to me."

Bryton's look spoke volumes about trust. "I don't believe you. I'm going to confirm it."

"Oh," Balke smirked, "that might be a problem. Lammersdorf's still down, and the phones and comms are a fucking mess. I couldn't even get through long enough to tell Edgrove what I found out up there, just that he thought it was a good idea for you to stick with me. I'm afraid you're stuck with me for the time being, my young apprentice."

"Fine, whatever. But you and I are gonna have it out real soon, and that's a promise. What's the plan?"

"Well, Brak, how's about you, me, and my personal security ninja mosey on over to Koblenz and get something to eat and drink while I fill you in on what's going down in Krautland with all this 'there isn't a conspiracy' Zeeky goodness? Then we'll go to Bonn and find out if Assclown's got anything spacey for us to assimilate."

Bryton's grin was sly. "I always thought Sajer was funny, too."

Balke punched him on the shoulder, hard. "And you wonder why I always put up with your shit, Brak. You are the Man! Hole in one. Having correctly identified the mysterious Captain Assclown without so much as a visible hint, drinks are on you."

"Fuck you, Camael. I've seen you drink."

"See? We're working together well, and you've already become accustomed to my needs. How could you not love this arrangement?"

Bryton sighed and shook his head. "And this is what they call 'career advancement'."

**Bonn, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe **

**November 10, 0087 **

Edgrove had no sooner been hung up on by Balke than his phone buzzed again. He mashed the button angrily. "WHAT?" he barked. He glanced across the Rhine river at the snow-whitened _Siebengebirge_ hills near Oberkassel, willing himself calmer.

"Colonel Edgrove?" spoke a silk-smooth voice from the other end. "This is Major Tizard at Lyons. I hope I'm not bothering you, but if so, may I call back later when you're not busy being a fool and an ignoramus?"

"No, no, Major. My apologies. I was on the phone a moment ago with my brand new ulcer aggravator. What can I do for you, Major?"

"Ulcers? You may want to get those looked at. Am I to understand that you have returned Camael Balke to the roster?"

"Umm, that's correct, Major."

"Good idea. Best one you've had yet. I commend you. Were I in your position, I would give him whatever he wanted. He knows his business, and I've always held to the opinion that he was ill-treated by the Federation. It's nice to know that inspiration and justice can go hand-in-hand in Bonn."

"We try, Major," Edgrove did his best to sound sincere and not condescending. He failed, but Tizard ignored it.

"I was calling to inform you that the favor Balke asked of the Titans is complete. The suits came from an Anaheim Electronics storage facility, paid for in gold bullion bars that we have tentatively identified as dating back to World War II. Zurich was holding them, I presume, and von Mellenthin took them when they sacked the city during the War. That is how they have financed Nemesis. The transaction was made almost one year ago."

"Those shits," hissed Edgrove. He suspected Zurich had lied to the Federation after the War, but never had the ability to prove it. And Anaheim was up to its old habits, too.

"The bulk freighter _Non Sequitur_ was indeed registered from Granada, and was leased to a pilot/operator named Rigel fan Waal. We haven't a listing of anyone, Spacenoid or otherwise, with that name, so we presume it's false. We're attempting to trace things further, but frankly, it's not high on the Titans' priority list at this point."

Edgrove got the impression that he was being talked down to. "How did you get this information so fast, Major? It's been less than twenty-four hours."

"We're Titans, Colonel Edgrove," responded Tizard, sounding impatient. "When we need something found out, we have ways of finding those somethings out. Beyond that, you need not concern yourself."

"Initiation of Phase 3 operation, mark! You know what to do, froggies!" spoke La Vesta over the hydrophone. With a gentle push, he shoved the giant draft barge _RMS Duisberg _forward and slid his _Hygogg_ free from underneath it. Behind him, Taglienti's _Z'Gok E_ dropped its massive legs into the river bottom and began to stand the suit to its full height, _RMS Westfalia_ still clutched in its claws. After a push of his own that sent _RMS Ruhrort_ on its way, Hemphill's _Z'Gok E _took hold of_ Westfalia_ and together, they began to lift it from the water and into the air.

Tizard's voice was almost mellow as he asked, "What about the report of that unit that got hit near Koblenz? Anything new on that end?"

"Balke is already there. He says the same _Gelgoogs_ that hit Lammersdorf were the ones that hit---" Edgrove's voice trailed off as his eyes began to register that the large boat that had been drifting slowly past on the river was beginning to rise from the surface of the water. "That's _impossible!_"

"What? What's happening, Colonel?" Tizard's voice fell away as Edgrove dropped the phone from his fingers, and it clattered to the ground two flights down from the balcony.

The barge was suspended in the air by the claws of a pair of Zeon amphibious mobile suits. Their red mono-eyes glared at the Federation HQ building. Like the kraken that was embossed on the armor of the mobile suits, next to the vengeful golden eagle of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_, a third one surfaced near them, water streaming in waves from broad shoulders and powerful fingers. Its mono-eye swiveled until it, too, rested on the Headquarters building.

Edgrove did not stay stunned for long, as he whirled and ran back inside. With a punch that broke open the skin above his knuckles, he slammed a fist into the alarm button. Klaxons blared forth from speakers throughout the building.

The three Zeon suits began to walk towards the shore. "**Federation!**" thundered a voice over the loudspeaker of the lead suit. "**You have not heeded the warning of Zeon! For this, you shall be destroyed!**"

Edgrove raced through the building faster than he thought he was able, bursting into his office and grabbing a pistol from his desk. People were running to and fro throughout the building. Outside, a .50 caliber machine gun chattered its futile resistance to the Zeon amphibious suits.

"Blow the mainframe, then get the hell out of here!! Authorization Delta-Niner-Zero-Zero!!" yelled Edgrove into the phone at the Operations people. Slamming it down, he ran from the office, following the crowd towards the stairs.

Outside, the first of the Zeon suits had stepped on land, the foot smashing to the earth with enough force to make windows rattle several blocks away. In a minimum of hassle and a maximum of response efficiency, Federation infantry raced into action, but their ability to harm mobile suits was limited. One let loose with a light wire-guided antitank rocket, which burst on the _Hygogg's_ lower leg, doing minimal damage. Machine gun bullets _whanged_ off the armored skins of the suits, richocheting to who knew where, the signs of their passing the tiny orange sparks of each rounds' impact and repulsion. Someone yelled for shaped charges and slap mines, but no one heard him. Civilians hampered progress everywhere as they fled the approach of the armored behemoths, their screams not enough to dampen the sound of battle.

"You may do the honors, gentlemen," smiled La Vesta. Their resistance was as weak as von Seydlitz had said it would be. What few garrison forces defended the Headquarters were meant to keep people at bay, not mobile suits. They had machine guns, and that was about the extent of their firepower. One man was even firing a _pistol_ at his suit! A spirited defense, La Vesta admitted, but ultimately useless. It was like trying to use BBs to stop a rhino.

The two _Z'Gok Es_ leaned back slightly, then forward again, then back again, and with a great heave, threw the 1000-ton draft barge into the air like it was a spear. La Vesta watched it sail through the air, in what seemed like slow motion, knowing full well what it was going to do.

The massive ship arced overhead, just as Edgrove fired the last 9mm round from his pistol. He had been aiming for the mono-eye, but the handgun didn't have the power to break the suit's main camera. Mouth open, he watched the 423-ft. long seagoing vessel fly over him, dripping Rhine river water from underneath its surface like a rain cloud as it passed him over. The propellers of the ship turned idly as it flew overhead, as if to guide it further on its aerial course as they would a watery one.

Then the world shuddered as it landed directly atop the Federation HQ building and exploded into white. The concussion arrived a moment later, and just before it struck, Edgrove thought of Metz, and despaired.

Then Edgrove flew, but did not know whether or not he landed.

The five metric tons of white phosphorus stored in the IMO-rated cargo hold of _RMS Westfalia_ exploded into incandescent white fire on contact with the atmosphere, vaporizing the ship, most of the building, and flash-searing the skins of everything it came into contact with. Ignited by the air, it burned anything organic in its white smoke-like tendrils. The heat melted the structural supports for the building, which then began to buckle into itself. The floors collapsed, and the whole HQ building, or what was left of it, collapsed into itself. Those trapped inside on the lower floors that were lucky enough to not suffer phosphorus burns died by crushing. A fire began to burn, adding its orange and black colors to the tableau.

The concussion wave from the explosion crumpled surrounding buildings in a three-block radius, and shattered windows even further than that. A white plume of smoke began to rise from the site into the sky, a tower that could be seen from kilometers away. It might as well have been a low-yield tactical nuclear device, and it wasn't over yet.

The two _Z'Gok Es_ strode to the shore, then up it, covering the few blocks in a few steps. Behind them, the _Hygogg_ stalked forward. "Let's make this total, Privates. Let them have it."

The monstrous tri-fingered claws of the _Z'Gok Es_ snapped open, and from the "palms" of their wicked hands, death vomited forth. Spitting blue pulses, the Zeon suits raked particle beams across the building, all its walls, the courtyard, the garage, everything. The _Hygogg_ added its own mega-particle energy weapons into the attack, setting the Federation flag alight with the heat of its hand-mounted beam cannons. As per their instructions, no building on the Federation compound was left untouched, as the intensity of the suits' firepower found even the deepest basement and sub-level out. The whole of the Federation's presence in Bonn was to be razed from its dominion. They were leisurely about it, like the wrath of God, unable to be harmed or even dismayed by the surviving, small humans below them.

A single jeep raced from the depths of the collapsing garage, only to be immolated by a burst from the _Hygogg's_ beam cannon. It was the only motor vehicle that made it out before the garage folded into itself, a gout of flame rushing up from its depths. The fuel depot was the last target, and at the caress of the mega-particle beams, it, too, exploded, finishing igniting what the white phosphorus did not set ablaze.

Within five minutes, Federation Headquarters, Bonn, had ceased to exist except as a smoldering collection of craters and ruined architecture. Bodies were strewn everywhere, hideously burned and blistered by the white phosphorus explosion or the searing heat of the Zeon energy weapons, or their flesh torn from fragments of ship or building, or their bones shattered by the concussion. Fires raged out of control, and the emergency vehicles dared not approach the mobile suits while they stood surveying the fingerprint of chaos they had laid on the face of Bonn.

Their mission completed, the suits returned to the river that had spawned them. The kraken of the 186th 'Deep Dwellers' Amphibious Platoon had fed. The _Z'Gok Es_ each took hold of one of the two remaining barges and continued on their way, the unburdened _Hygogg_ leading, invisible below the waters again.

"_That was almost too easy, wasn't it, Sarge?_" asked Hemphill, gratified that none of the old city's architecture had been touched in the attack, as von Seydlitz had ordered. The same could not be said for the surrounding real estate.

"_'Almost'?_" complained Taglienti. "_It _was _too easy!_"

"Dunno about you, but I prefer it stay that way. Ten minutes to next contact point with Command. Set speed at fifteen knots, and maintain northward course." La Vesta was gratified, but could not help but wonder if fortune would not favor the foolish before this was all over.

And _RMS Ruhrort _and _RMS Duisberg_ continued on their way, as though not even noticing the carnage behind them.

**Lyons, Rhone-Alpes, Western Europe**

**November 10, 0087**

Major Golan Tizard pressed the OFF button on the desk telephone with the finality of an executioner. Garrett Sajer looked up from the field test report on the new mobile suit they'd received just last week. "Hmm?" asked the Captain as he saw the expression on Tizard's face.

"Be ready to go back to Bonn at the earliest convenience, Captain. I believe von Mellenthin has just upped the ante," spoke the soft basso rumble that was Tizard's voice.

"How so, sir?"

"I was just on the phone with Colonel Edgrove. Then I was not. I believe some disaster has befallen our Federation comrades. A little taste of what's waiting for Cramer, I think."

Sajer was confused. "I-I'm not sure I---"

"I know you're not sure, Captain. Get your gear, find a transport, and get back to Bonn _now_, before we're all taking orders from Camael Balke. I'll make certain your _Barzam_ comes along when we deploy, now go."

One of the bizarre things about Golan Tizard was that he never had to raise his voice to make someone know he was displeased. Sajer did not stick around to reason _why_ the Major was displeased, he just bolted, instinct piercing even his own arrogance. The paper he had been holding fluttered to the ground.

Tizard stood from his desk and walked over to the paper, picking it up and placing it gingerly into a folder, which then was filed away in a metal cabinet drawer. He then walked over to the window and surveyed the movements of his people below, all neat and tidy in their red and black, and he mulled over what he knew had just happened. Black King's Bishop to White Queen, check. The 10th had struck Bonn, the nerve center for Federal Forces, Europe. The brain had been neutralized, which meant that the limbs had been paralyzed from higher nerve control. Now the limbs would operate under their own nervous systems, flailing about wildly and without guidance. The brain was dead; long live the brain.

What the Zeon did not know was that the game was not chess, but checkers, and while their foe had just lost a big piece, their more dangerous enemy had just been Kinged.

His eyes scanned over the tremendous strength of what he had available. Outside, the black-and-red _Hizacks_ knelt low, cockpit hatches open. They were on standby alert all the time now, ready to be loaded into the _Garuda_ transports at a moment's notice. It was the same for the GM IIs, and Sajer's lone _Barzam_. And for Tizard's own new toy, that stood shorter than any of the others, gleaming _darkly_ if that were possible, for despite its smaller stature, with the exception of the _Barzam_ it was possibly the deadliest thing the 54th TTAB had ever been able to deploy in its order of battle.

After some of the fuckups his fellow spacefaring Titans had managed to pull off recently, like the infiltration and mobile suit theft from the Gate of Zedan less than a month ago, Tizard was happy with anything he could get from Titans High Command that weren't empty promises. Too many stupid psychological projects as opposed to military ones were occupying the Titans in space, like the _Gaukler_ mobile armor project and the insane notion of constructing and using the Gryps-2 colony laser to inspire fear to make their foes meek. A waste of time, as far as Tizard was concerned, because the more people they used developing these nonsensical delusions, the fewer people they had busy killing AEUG members.

As it was, the Titans hierarchy was already fielding hordes of these things in space. This RMS-108 _Marasai_, to Tizard's knowledge, was the first one of its kind to find a permanent home on Earth itself, and it was _his_ to use.

He had to marvel at the genius behind Nemesis. This was a truly well-thought out game, complete with gambits and deceptions, surprises and trickery. But unlike the Federation, and Camael Balke, Tizard had the exact number of units the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ possessed, and their types. According to the report from their field operatives on Granada, the man who'd made the deal gave it up after only one hour's worth of "advanced interrogation". What was loyalty or greed in the face of a testicular clamp and a righteous inquisitor? A scream, nothing more.

Nineteen suits, total. All of them older designs that dated back to 0083, which might as well have been 1883 Old Calendar in regards to what was being fielded today. A Zeon company and a half, not even a battalion's worth of strength, and the Federation itself shit its britches like a frightened child over such a pathetic display of military power. They would be no match for the 54th Titans Tactical Armored Brigade. The lion roared, but Tizard knew how many teeth the old cat had left in that mouth.

"'Proud, art thou met?'," he murmured to the air, quoting a character whose name Tizard could not remember, but that Milton had scored the words in _Paradise Lost_. "'Thy hope was to have reached; the height of thy aspiring unopposed; The Throne of God unguarded, and His side; Abandoned at the terror of thy power; . . . Fool! . . .'"

Information was power, and with it, Tizard did not fear the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ or any of von Mellenthin's tricks on the battlefield. Unlike the Federation, he had no qualms about killing those eight NewTypes. After all, unless Sajer was lying through his teeth, they were created and designed to combat the artificial NewTypes that the Titans employed, and Sajer wasn't nearly inventive enough to cook up a story like that without help. Tizard had no compulsions about how he felt about the possibility of the Federation winning that fight and disbanding the Titans. His own sense of honor said to protect innocent life. The eight NewType constructs were not innocent, and as far as Tizard was concerned, not life. Therefore, they were not entitled to chivalric protection.

When the Titans raged, even gods suffered. So too would it be with the twisted Nephilim the Federation sought to bring to power. Tizard knew the legends of the rise of the gods over the Titans, but unlike arrogant Cronus, he would not be content with swallowing the latent gods whole. Instead, he would feed them to fires, and crows would feast on their flesh, and verily they would be devoured. He would take a page from Egypt's tales, and tear Osiris limb from limb and bone from sinew, and scatter him throughout the universes, to never rise again.

But it did not matter. Once this was done, then all would know that in Heaven and on Earth, the Titans were supreme.

**Taunus Mountains, Hessen, Central Europe**

**November 11, 0087 **

"You still with me back there?" asked de la Somme of his passenger, who kept staring off into space despite the conversation. He glanced behind him around the rims of the tiny, round, mirror-lens sunglasses he was wearing. In the background of the semi-deep discussion, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers told folks to not 'come around here no more'. A plastic Death Star dangled from its suction cup on the monitor above de la Somme's head.

The mother of all thunderstorms raged outside, rain cascading from the sky in a torrent. Its fury lashed impotently at the mobile suits, who strode through its deluge with no more care than if it were a fall of flower blossoms. The ground, turning into a decaying leaf-and-mud sludge, did not hamper the movement of the suits in the slightest. No mudsucking pit could deter one of the great war machines for more than a moment anyway, but visibility was hampered somewhat by the darkness and the running streaks of water from the cameras. As such, von Mellenthin had slowed their march considerably, as this storm would certainly last several days. The Zeon suits crept their way through the mountains with caution now, for while the mud could not trap a suit, a careless pilot could easily have one take a spill down a ridgeline and damage systems in their machine, and that would be a very bad thing at this juncture.

De la Somme, of course, usually took whatever opportunity he could to play in the rain. If they hadn't been on the march, he would have been doing exactly that. But that option having been denied him, he chattered instead. Erik was both a rapt audience and an unusually inquisitive soul.

The boy nodded after a moment, blinking. "Ideas are so important?" It was the response to de la Somme's previous allusion, an astute but naive one about why humans liked war.

"Yeah, ideas are important. Ideas're what give us reasons sometimes. It's like, you have this idea about how to line up a row of colored blocks, and it's a good idea, one that makes all the colors look real good together. Then, someone else sees the blocks that you set up and decides that the color scheme sucks rocks, so they get the idea to change it without asking you first. Is that fair? They were your blocks, and you set them the way you wanted them, so who're other people to be messing around with what's yours?"

"Other people with ideas," answered Erik.

"But did they _ask_ to play with what was yours? Did them moving the blocks around make it right to you, and not just to them? Ideas and ideals are selfish sometimes, you know? So how're you going to make it so that someone else can't mess with your idea?"

"Ask them not to."

"That's one way, and probably the right way, but it don't always work like that. Sometimes you gotta defend your ideas in a way that's not always calm and sensible. Sometimes you gotta lay the beatdown on someone to get them to respect your ideas in the same way you'd respect theirs. It's territory. Tunes bothering you?"

Erik stared blankly ahead, not moving. After a moment, and several vocal attempts to garner attention, the child responded. "No, the music is fine. Uncle Antares, I don't understand using war, a vehicle for taking life, as a means of earning respect. Wouldn't you be killing the person whose idea you are supposed to be changing?"

"War's not a respectable thing sometimes, but a lot of times the people who have to do it are respectable. No, usually war's kept as a last resort, like this one was. People take things too far too often, dig?" The boy had taken to calling him 'Uncle Antares' the previous day, an affectation that de la Somme absolutely did not mind. If he'd had to wait for von Mellenthin and von Seydlitz to progenate, he would be at least as old as they were at the rate they were going for him to earn that blood title, and they were both several years overdue for that particular duty anyway.

"I have a question for you now."

"Speak on it, my brother! Lay it on me!" crowed the pilot, veering the _Gouf Custom_ around a clump of trees, following in the footsteps of Roberts' _Gelgoog Marine Commander_ ahead of him.

"What happens when you defend ideas that you know are wrong, even to the other people who defend those ideas?"

"Hmmm," mused de la Somme, not having expected that one from an eight year-old boy. "Usually whoever has the unpopular idea gets his ass kicked, if you pardon the French, by the people in his camp who decide not to like it. Some folks'd call it treason. Others would call it heroism. How it gets decided is by other people, the ones who aren't involved or the ones on the other side who see it, cause only they can judge, but even that could be wrong."

"People don't make sense," spoke Erik. "They say one thing, then do something else entirely when the time comes."

"Yeah, it's a stinker, ain't it? There are times I wonder if anyone has a really right idea."

The radio cut in: "_Lion One, this is Raver One. We've reached the end of the Taunus range._" Margul, radioing von Mellenthin.

"_Understood, Raver One. We'll cross between Hadamar and Weilberg and move into the Westerwald range. Continue at speed._"

"_Roger that, Lion One. Raver One out._"

De la Somme grimaced, an odd expression of hate on his face. "Then again, some people deserve to have their ideas destroyed, just like themselves."

"You don't like him, do you?"

"What makes you say that?" asked de la Somme, sarcasm oozing from every pore. "It's not that I don't like Vlady, I just hate him. With great violence and energy."

"Why?"

De la Somme winced. "He did something I can't forgive him for. A long time ago." He would have continued, but something in his head told him that he didn't have to go into detail about the incident, and he was comforted by the fact that he wouldn't have to relate it to a child. "Some people so like their ideas that they'll enforce them with every kind of cruelty they can think of, then hide it behind lies to save their own necks when the bill comes due."

"He loves war."

"Yeah," breathed de la Somme quietly. "Another reason war'll never go out of style. Fools like Vlady and me. When we're all gone, maybe it will all be done."

"Will it ever end? Having to enforce an idea?"

De la Somme popped another stick of chewing gum into his mouth, then held the pack out to Erik, who took one. "Yeah, if we win. Deet'll see to that. Anything else'd be uncivilized."

"What are your ideas, Uncle Antares?" asked Erik around his gum.

"That's an easy question. Peace, love, rock 'n roll, junk food, orphans, and family. Those're the only things important to me enough that I'd fight for them. Oh, and fun. Can't forget fun, cause if it's not fun, it's not worth doing."

"Are you doing a job, or just having fun now?"

"The job, but it's fun. Nothing else lets me play with a sweet ride like this mobile suit, even if it is one big ol' weapon. Yeah, people can moralize all they want about killing and all that, but the way I see it is that I've got the same chances as anyone else in one of these things, so it's a fair fight all around, and I'd rather be alive and howling than dead and rotting, you know? If I gotta accept consequences for what I do on the field of battle, then they'll come calling me on their own time."

"Do you fight for those things now?" It was amazing how grown-up this child could sound when he wanted to.

"Yeah. Deet and Reinhardt are my family, 'bout the only ones I got. I fight for what they fight for."

"Even if your idea is better than theirs?"

De la Somme shook his head. "I don't get a lot of better ideas than them. They're . . . different. I let Deet handle the music, I just sing the tune, know what I'm saying? And Reinhardt baby is just Reinhardt baby. He's a tough guy to get along with, and he's brutally stuffy, but he's always stuck up for me, even when the whole world that mattered to him told him not to."

"You love him." Not a question, a statement of fact.

"Yeah, him and Deet both. How couldn't I?"

"You have no family except for them?"

"None _like_ them, no." He paused for a moment to sweep the woods with the main camera, absently fingering something that lay underneath the fabric of his 'Hard Rock Cafe, Solomon' T-shirt. "They're what I got, and I almost didn't even get that. Everything I am and have now was because of them. God was definitely on the stick back then, that's for sure."

"God?" asked Erik after another silent moment.

"Yeah, God. He's the guy who gives us the plan, we just gotta be sure we're following it. Most bad stuff happens when we're not paying attention, but God is."

There was a long silence in the cockpit of the _Gouf Custom_, pierced only by the hiss-and-whine noise of the actuators and the sound of the mobile suit's footsteps.

"I have a theory," offered Erik. "You have your colored blocks, and these blocks are shared by a group of people, each of whom have a color. One person, the one who likes red, decides that the color purple is ugly and should be removed from the blocks. He gets a lot of other people to agree with him that purple is ugly, and they start getting rid of purple. After purple gets removed, the one who wanted to get rid of purple decides suddenly that blue is ugly, too. After a while, the other colors decide that the person who has red is actually going to just leave the red blocks, and is using the others against each other to serve his own ends, even the people who once held the one with red in love and friendship. What do they do, continue to follow red even if it means the removal of their own colors, or do they kick red out and share the rest of the colors among themselves, even if it will hurt them because red is their friend?"

"Depends on the other colors. If a color being ugly is the only reason to give it the axe, I don't think that's a strong enough reason to get rid of it. I'd let red know that we think his color-killing stinks, and we're not going to do it anymore."

"Even if that idea is God's plan?"

"Hey, if He doesn't like it, He'll let them know in advance. With luck, the other colors'd have someone like me who can interpret God's plan for them, because everyone needs someone like me around. They wouldn't be cool otherwise." He crossed his arms on his chest and nodded emphatically. "Everyone needs a crazy Uncle Antares to keep 'em on the right track. Too much sane gets you colorblind."

After a long moment of glassy-eyed stare, Erik smiled. So, too, did the Commonality.


	15. Chapter 14

MSG: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed 

**Chapter 14**

**Bonn, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe**

**November 13, 0087**

Camael Balke's boots rapped on the tile floor as he marched loudly down the hallway of the _Rheinische Landesklinik_.  He was on the third floor, which was simultaneously the ICU and the burn ward, and he was certain the noise he was making was disturbing to those below him who were unlucky enough to not be in one of the nice sound-dampered rooms.  As it was, his step was broken only as he was evading the wreckages of human forms that were lined along the hallway walls.  He was especially careful not to touch anyone with the item he had under his arm, for fear of causing more injury.  He gritted his teeth as he grimly walked forward, anger on his face and disgust in his heart.

Three hundred and forty-two people had died in the Zeon attack on Bonn, a hundred and forty of them Federation personnel.  The majority of them had died from concussion and shrapnel rather than chemical burns or particle cannons.  Another five hundred or so were wounded, and they had filled every hospital on this side of _Kaiser-Karl-Ring_ to admit them all.  There was an oily, waxy coating on everything within an eight-block radius of the hollowed-out crater that used to be Federation HQ.  The place was a disaster area, with the stern end of a 1000-ton barge sticking out of the blackened remains of the Federation compound.  He shook his head unconsciously at the memory of viewing the carnage.  They were still trying to find survivors underneath the rubble, cutting away at the final resting place of the husk that was _RMS Westfalia_ in their zeal to find someone, anyone, alive in the lower levels. The near-constant rain was not helping matters much, and the blast site was a morass of slime and misery.

He turned a corner sharply, spotting Dorff standing guard on the door he sought.  He would have smiled at the sight of the ex-Ranger playing door goon, but there was nothing for him to smile about here, not with the news he had come to deliver.  Thus far, ever since their return to Bonn two days ago from Koblenz, the only good thing that had happened for the Federation was the discovery of how the Zeeks had infiltrated their suits into Heidelberg.  The registry of _Westfalia_ had led them to _Rhein-, Maas-, und See- Schiffahrtskontor GmbH_, a firm out of Duisberg, as being the ones who had contracted out the vessel.  It just so happened that the man in charge of _R-, M-, und S- Schiffahrtskontor GmbH_ had actually been trying to use the civil police forces to track down the whereabouts of nine of his crewmen, last seen in Regensburg, not to mention three 1000-ton draft barges, also last seen in Regensburg, all of which were IMO-rated to prevent a close inspection, and none of which had been purchased for use as a massive phosphorus bomb.  Balke had Bryton tracing the phosphorus at this very moment, and he hoped his old pal had something to go on. The strings of investigation had finally come together in Bonn, in one big _boom_.  Now the question was how many strands of this web had they still not seen.

If there was one thing Balke was getting very tired of, it was the Zeon having all the fun.  They had yet to regain the initiative in this fight, and until they did, von Mellenthin's people were going to have their way with the Federation all the live-long day.  He cursed himself for the umpteenth time this morning for being a pathetic excuse for a soldier in the Intelligence business.  His lack of information was costing them this fight.

"Is he awake?" he asked Dorff as he came to a halt.

The ex-Ranger nodded, his expression the most somber Balke had ever seen.  "As much as he needs to be.  Prepare yourself, Captain.  He looks a lot more like his place of work than a human right now."

Balke grimaced, then nodded towards the door, which Dorff opened.  The smell of antiseptics was almost overpowering, and he gritted his teeth as he entered.  This would be about as pleasant as he'd thought it would be.

After the Zeon suits of the now-confirmed 186th 'Deep Dwellers' Amphibious had left the vicinity of Bonn, rescue workers had gone apeshit on the entire site.  One of their early discoveries was the near-dead form of Colonel Lucas Edgrove, who had apparently been blown through a plate-glass window before being burned by phosphorus and slammed _into_ a _Fachwerk_ hard plaster wall.  How he'd survived was nothing short of the hand of God and dumb luck working in unison.  Edgrove was on the bed, swaddled in more burn wrappings than a crystal vase being shipped overseas, and encased in a different form of plaster than what the paramedics had pried him from.  Very little of him was visible above the nose and below the chin.  He had more wires and tubes sticking out of him beneath the wrappings than should be possible.  Machines and devices beeped dutifully as they monitored vital signs and other such necessary components to determine whether or not the person they were attached to was alive or just fooling.

Balke needed no machine to tell him Edgrove was alive.  The harshness of the eyes that glared out from between wrappings was proof enough.  The whirring hiss of the oxygen bellows that helped Edgrove to breathe was the only thing that broke the long silence.  The window blinds were open, the gray light outside illuminating the room better than the fluorescents could.

Edgrove was not alone in the room.  Sajer fiddled with a lap console on the far side of the Colonel's bed.  Balke squelched the urge to smoke, and swore to get Dorff for not telling him in advance that there was company.

"Sir," he spoke to Edgrove gently, "I have arrived."

"No shit," said Sajer, lips curled in his ever-present sneer.  "We thought you were the flower girl."

"Wow," snapped Balke, "so you're thinking on your own now, eh?  That explains the smell, cockknocker.  Are we done with the fruity conversation, or shall we degenerate to name-calling and kicking sand?"

Sajer finished whatever he was doing with the console.  "Don't  bother, we're done.  Put that thing down, Balke, and pass me the cords and the disc."

"It's nice to see you alive, Colonel," said Balke to the ruin on the bed.

"Wish I could say the same, Captain," spoke an electronic facsimile of Edgrove's voice from a speaker near his bedside.  With the extent of the damage to his nose and throat, the doctors had had to run a tube into his esophagus for him to breathe through.  This did not prevent a subvocal transmitter from being installed for Edgrove to communicate through, however.   "Where have you relocated headquarters?"

"The University, sir.  I don't think the 10th would come back to destroy the former seat of the Elector Prince of Koeln, no matter who's living there."

"Good thinking.  Maybe next time we'll put all of our assets into museums and memorials, just in case."  Edgrove's eyes narrowed.  "Report.  I don't see balloons in your hand, and the look on your face tells me you'd rather be somewhere else anyway, so it has to be bad news."

Balke tossed a disc to Sajer, who deftly caught it with a mobile suit pilot's better-than-average reflexes, then set the old-style projector device on Edgrove's plaster-swathed chest like he were a table.  "Unfortunately, it is.  Our supermonkeys have hit us again."

"Figured they'd give up after the _awful_ thrashing they got here in Bonn?"  Sajer leaned over to plug in the projector.

"If you're going to be a dick about this, get out."  Balke rubbed his hands on his trouser legs, wiping away the sweat.  He had always hated hospitals.  His conscience did not allow him to be at his best in such an environment.__

Sajer held his hands up in mock surrender, then reached over and dimmed the fluorescent room lights.  The projector spat the image from the console onto the far wall.  One of the few decent uses for an all-white wall was its ability act as a screen.  Edgrove, while annoyed at the projector on his body cast, was in the perfect position to see by.  The picture was not particularly pretty; a collection of ruined buildings, and destroyed Federation tanks and vehicles, debris scattered across low-rolling fields and littered streets.  Sajer winced visibly, and Edgrove's oxygen bellows gave a longer hiss than his usual breath as he gasped around the tube in his throat.  

Balke cleared his throat uncomfortably, then began:  "At oh-six-thirty hours yesterday, the 10th _Panzerkaempfer _struck Kassel.  They came out of the west, through the Habichtwald forest.  From what  I was able to gather from the locals and what few survivors there were from the base, their strength is greater than we'd believed.   I'll take you step-by-step through what I've been able to gather from reports and physical evidence . . ."

Kassel, Hessen, Central Europe November 12, 0087 

"Perhaps they had no choice, _Generalmajor_," said Reinhardt von Seydlitz as he shook his head, "stranger things have happened in these last eight years."

"Of course they had a _choice_, _Oberst_," spat Dietrich von Mellenthin, "they just _chose poorly."  The General's knuckles were white, gripping the field glasses in anger.  "What in hell possessed them to allow this?"_

What had gotten von Mellenthin so hot under the collar was on the far side of the Fulda River from the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_'s present position.  They had known there was a Federation _kaserne here in Kassel, but what had not been noticed was that in the intervening years since the inception of the base, the eastern half of the city (which was quaintly divided in two by the river) had grown _around_ the Federation installation.  Now the __kaserne, complete with a fully-functional airfield, was integrated into the community itself instead of being on the outskirts of the city's suburbs. _

"This will present a problem for us.  Should we call off the attack?"

"Absolutely _not_!" growled von Mellenthin, tossing the field glasses back to von Seydlitz.  "The attack goes as intended!  Do we have an adequate map of the city?"

"It is outdated, but should be accurate for any structure older than five years."

Von Mellenthin's face took on an evil countenance as he looked at von Seydlitz.  "Grab it, then meet me down below.  We'll just have to run a new take on an old solution."  Then he leapt off of his _Zaku Hi-Mo's_ hand and slid down the arm to the open cockpit hatch plate.

Bonn, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe November 13, 0087 

" . . .As you know, Kassel base is an integrated part of the city of Kassel itself.  We built the entire thing in an undeveloped section of land abutting _Autobahn_ 7 between Niestetal and Kaufhungen suburbs.  Over the years, the city simply grew around the base.  The area the base sits on is composed of primarily low-rolling hills, with little in the way of obstructions except for the city itself.  With Cramer and his mobile suits gone, the garrison for the base and its airfield was composed of a company of Type-61 tanks, some lighter armored vehicles, a couple of light recon helicopters, and several of the older Calliope wheeled missile tanks.  In addition to the mobile forces, Kassel also had about a dozen fixed emplacement particle cannons and nine fixed Calliope missile batteries along the perimeter.  Cramer took his attack helicopter contingent with him to Magdeburg . . ."

Kassel, Hessen, Central Europe November 12, 0087 

Von Seydlitz's finger traced a line across the map.  "Move into the eastern sector of the city using these three bridges across the _Fuldabrueck_.  After you have crossed, destroy the bridges behind you.  That will prevent an excess amount of civilians from moving back and forth across the river, as well as cutting off an escape route for the Federals.  Your suits will have no difficulty making the jump back across."

Antares de la Somme, leaning casually on the lower leg of the standing _Gouf Custom_ beside him, already knew what he was here for, and what they were doing, and most importantly, how to do it.  He occupied his time tormenting Margul instead.  He barely paid attention to the briefing, being more concerned with flicking a thin branch of dogwood at Margul's right ear from behind, tickling the other officer incessantly, then snapping the branch back when Margul went to grab at it.

The Colonel's finger shifted again.  "Your primary objective is to destroy the base and the airfield, including everything on them.   _Kapetain_ Roberts and his team will blast a hole in the fixed perimeter defenses just after the air traffic radars have been neutralized.  Once the hole has been forced, _Kommandant_ Margul and his 'Grimravers' will exploit, followed up by Roberts' Marines and the remainder of the supporting elements.  Eight suits total should be more than sufficient to reduce this base to ashes.  The _Doms_ will continue on the path to Steinbaum and ready for our arrival.  Once this is complete, all assault forces will evacuate the region and proceed to Steinbaum.  I and the 358th Light Assault will remain behind, to guard our rear and to make absolutely certain that Cramer's 103rd has no choice but to go where we wish them to."

"Bait."  Weissdrake did not voice it as a question.

"An accurate assessment, yes," replied von Seydlitz casually.

"Secondary objectives?" asked Roberts, equally casually.

Von Seydlitz's face remained unreadable.  "Secondary objective is simple.  Once the base is dealt with, you are to punish Kassel."

"_HUH??_" perked up de la Somme at those words.  Murmurs swept across the group around the table, hushed whispers of stunned amazement.  

"_Generalmajor_ von Mellenthin is displeased by Kassel's willingness to allow a Federal _kaserne inside the city limits.  Once the bridges to the west side have been destroyed, your secondary objective is to sack the eastern half of the city.  You are to smite the citizens of Kassel as God smote Sodom, with fire and destruction.  The eastern sector is primarily businesses and industry, so most of the historical sites will be unharmed.  Civilian casualties will be minimalized, yet numerous enough to hammer home the point that we will not hesitate to obliterate anything that gives aid and succor to our enemies."_

This was quite a change from the ordinary.  During the War, von Mellenthin had been deliberately lenient on the citizenry of Germany, doing his best to avoid combat on German soil because of his own historical ties to the nation.  This was a complete reversal of that policy, with the advocacy of the destruction of countless civilians and half of a major urban area.  The table was silent as they took that fact in.  Weissdrake glanced at de la Somme, who just winked.

De la Somme wondered if the priorities had changed.  If they had, then perhaps _other_ things had changed.  He resolved to ask his foster brothers about it in the near future.  If anyone had been looking at him, they would have noticed his ever-present grin slide into something a little more sinister in bearing than humorous.

Von Seydlitz picked up on the tension of the other officers immediately.  "I realize how shocking this plan must be, but you must understand that the _General_ is, to put it simply, livid at this development.  He feels the people of Kassel need to be an example to everyone who would oppose the will of Zeon.  In a strategic sense, the blow is designed to inflame Cramer into doing something rash, which will put him exactly where we want him.  On the tactical level, it will add another dose of unpredictability to this unit, making us harder to anticipate.  You have your orders.  _Kommandant_ de la Somme, you know what to do.  Get to it."

"Yes, sir," he replied, saluting smartly before flicking the dogwood branch away and running back to his suit as the rest of the briefing broke up to.

"What's happening?" asked Erik as de la Somme climbed up the leg of the kneeling _Gouf Custom_ and into the cockpit.

"Business, my lad.  And a bit of pleasure, too, but really mostly business."  He tapped a button and closed the hatchway before twisting around to face his young passenger.  "This is going to be rough and messy," he said, voice serious, "if you want out, tell me now."

"I'm in," replied the boy.  "What do you mean by 'rough and messy'?"

"We might die.  If we don't, a lot of other folks do."  Lights flashed red along the console as he flicked a forefinger on a row of switches, beginning the power-up sequence for the mobile suit.

Erik blinked once.  "Everyone dies."

"Yep.  The only choice I got is to kill or be killed.  You comfy with that?"  The suit made a whining sound that became a low rumble as the great machine came to life.  Systems across the cockpit kicked in, and  the screens flared to life as the cameras began feeding visual information across them.

"You're a soldier.  Do what you must."

De la Somme grinned, and Erik's eyes widened as the man he had spent the last few days getting to know and like turned into something completely different.  In his mind's eye, an eye that had been pried open by the best the Federation had to offer its hopeful NewTypes, he saw the 'soul' of Antares de la Somme dim, then flare into a light that was almost blinding, and he squinted reflexively as that light began to suffuse itself throughout the cockpit of the mobile suit, then bleed across the walls.  After a moment, the light had transferred itself throughout the suit, and de la Somme was normal again.

But the light stayed.  Erik took on a worried expression, his enhanced mind trying to come to terms with what he was seeing.

"You might be sorry you said that," said de la Somme to the boy, totally ignorant of what the child was seeing happen around him as in his own head, he just put his 'game face' on.  "I just hope you'll still love me in the morning."  

Bonn, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe November 13, 0087 

" . . .After determining their route of assault, the Zeon suits separated into groups of three to four.  But they initially messed up, which is why this entire thing is not only humiliating, but a real shitpile to piece together," Balke mashed the button on the projector, switching the picture on the wall from a photo still to a tactical map. 

"What kind of 'messed up'?  You saying they actually made a mistake?"  asked Sajer, spearing a red Jell-O cube with a plastic fork.  Edgrove whimpered a bit, since it was his lunch that Sajer was demolishing while his own attention was occupied by the briefing.

"Something like that, though it didn't do Kassel any good anyway."  Balke glared at Sajer as he watched the egregious display of gluttony.  The Titans was torturing the immobilized Colonel in a very childlike way, but Balke could not determine whether or not it was conscious on the young Captain's part.

Edgrove's subvocal transmitter buzzed.  "Continue, Captain," he sighed, resigning himself to having to wait until dinner to eat.

"The first sighting was a green flare, a typical Zeek signal for attack, located here near the Herkules tower on the hill nearest the _Wilhelmshoehe_ mountain," he indicated the point with a red light pen on the wall.  "But the first wave didn't attack the base itself for several minutes after the flare, and they approached from the southwest direction, out of Wahlershausen, but they stopped before crossing the bridges.  By this point, the base was secured and ready to repel the assault, but despite their readiness, this is where things start to get a bit hazy for us . . ." 

Kassel, Hessen, Central Europe November 12, 0087 

"The flare is aloft, _Kommandant_.  Why are you delaying?" asked von Seydlitz as de la Somme's _Gouf Custom_ leisurely walked up to where his own suit and von Mellenthin's _Zaku Hi-Mo_ stood watching.  

In the distance, the reverberation of the alarm klaxons on Kassel _kaserne began their scream of alert as the advancing Zeon mobile suits made their presence known by marching through the city itself.  The sounds from Kassel itself became more strident and chaotic as traffic snarled and the city became very aware that dangerous things were cratering its streets with their footsteps.  De la Somme popped open the hatch again to talk to his commanders, tilting his head to listen to the din._

"That's obvious, Reinhardt," said von Mellenthin, eyes still affixed to the field glasses, "he's here to ask permission to play."

Von Seydlitz stifled a grin.  "Should we give it to him?"

"As long as the job gets done, I don't see why not."  Von Mellenthin smiled as a beam of light lanced out into the air and caressed a departing transport as it flew overhead, chopping a wing from the aircraft.  "I'll presume you'll want theme music, won't you?"

"Yeah, I was thinking about it," said de la Somme.  "Got any ideas?"

"Nothing you would listen to."  In the distance, the crippled transport plane smashed into a building, trailing smoke as it plunged to the fireball that was its doom.  

Von Mellenthin unconsciously winced.  The plane had come very close to demolishing the statue memorializing the Brothers Grimm, who had written their tales while living in Kassel hundreds of years ago.

De la Somme huffed.  "That's mean, _Oberst_.  I'm a cultural guy, too, you know!"

Von Mellenthin laughed.  "The ability to pronounce 'Rammstein' properly doesn't make you cultured, Antares."

"Ha, ha, jailbird.  Seriously, I was thinking of 'Mars, Bringer of War'."

Von Mellenthin peeled his eyes away from the field glasses, and von Seydlitz's jaw almost dropped.  "_You_ want to listen to _Holst_?"

"Something like that.  So can I?"

"Yes, fine, whatever, just go already," said von Mellenthin, "And remember what your mission is.  I want Kassel to suffer for its foolishness."  He looked at the smaller form peeking out from behind de la Somme's seat and smiled.  "The world will learn that the Zeon that we shall create expects only two things from its subjects: obedience or death.  What happens to Kassel will remind all Terra of that fact."

De la Somme's lips turned downward in something that was almost a frown.  "I hope I don't hafta remind you, sir, that it's things like this that made people think you had Luxembourg burned.  That used to be a bother to you, even though it wasn't true.  Why's this any different than what the Federation thinks of you?"

The eyes of the General had locked on de la Somme's, and the younger pilot's own hazel eyes widened in surprise at the wrath that flowed from von Mellenthin's gaze, and from his words.  After a long moment, von Mellenthin returned his eyes to the field glasses.  When he spoke again, his voice had taken on the harsh quality that it always did when he was angry. "'Why?  I have not another tear to shed;  Besides, this sorrow is an enemy; And would usurp upon my watery eyes; And make them blind with tributary tears; Then which way shall I find to Revenge's cave?'"

Von Seydlitz glanced at de la Somme, then shrugged in the fashion he used when admitting that he had already tried to talk their brother out of something and had also failed.  De la Somme nodded grimly, getting that message more easily than the lines von Mellenthin had quoted from his favorite Shakespearean play, _Titus Andronicus_.

"Ho-_kay," smirked de la Somme, "you're just miffed that Eintracht Frankfurt got trounced by Alemannia Aachen for the 2nd Division title this year."_

"They had that game by two points and threw them away.  I'd have had their defenders executed.  You've got your wish, _Kommandant_, now go."

The hatch closed again, and the _Gouf Custom_ turned and began to sprint away, its footsteps thundering behind it, leaving stamped earth behind it.

"What do you think?  Is he finally growing up?" asked von Seydlitz.

"It'd be about time."  Von Mellenthin lowered the glasses and smiled at von Seyditz.  "Holst.  Can you believe it?  I never thought I'd hear _that come from Mr. Rock 'n Roll."_

"Nor I.  It makes me wonder if---" Von Seydlitz stopped, and both their heads turned at the sound of the guitars thundering from the massive loudspeakers of the dashing _Gouf Custom_.  It was an opening, but certainly not to Holst's 'Mars, Bringer of War'.  The lyrics cued in, and the look on von Seydlitz's face degenerated into something resembling disdain.  The expression on von Mellenthin's was similar.

"Never mind," they said in unison.

Bonn, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe November 13, 0087 

". . .After the last of the Zeon crossed the bridge, they destroyed them using grenades and bazooka fire, separating the eastern half of Kassel from the western."  Balke changed the picture on the wall to show one of the shattered bridges, parts sticking out from the waters of the Fulda River.  "I was unable to get an exact number of mobile suits that were involved in the attack, the numbers range anywhere from one to twelve."

"A dozen suits would be enough, and then some," said Sajer, glancing at the next picture to pop up on the wall.  "The layout of that base is too open, even with the fixed emplacements."

"There's more to Kassel than what you see, Captain," said Edgrove through the speaker.

Sajer's flint-hard eyes narrowed.  "Explain."

"Kassel was designed to be an obstacle straddling the Fulda gap for any conventional armored force making an approach from either east or west.  On paper, it's nothing more than an airfield and some mobile suit hangars, but that's just paper.  The truth is that Kassel is a bit tougher than that, or would be ordinarily.  Back when we had a significant presence in Europe, Kassel was the place where an enemy could be stopped, then pushed back, and the base becomes a forward supply and logistics post for the counterattacking friendlies."  Balke changed the picture again.  "Our Zeeks didn't know that when Cramer took his suits and his attack helos with him to Magdeburg, he left his conventional armor assets behind, and while officially the 103rd only has a few Type-61s and Calliopes, Kassel is also the home of the 77th Armored Battalion, Special."

Sajer's face betrayed several levels of confusion.  "'Special'?"

"It's a garrison force, Captain," said Edgrove.  "Fifty Type-61s, fully loaded.  They didn't go to Magdeburg . . ."

Kassel, Hessen, Central Europe November 12, 0087 

"'Get your motor _runnin_'!  _Baah-dum-__bah-bum-bum!  _Head_ out on the _highwa~ay_!!  __Baah-dum-__bah-bum-bum!  Lookin' for ad_ven_ture!!  __Baah-dum-__bah-bum-bum!  And _whatever_ comes __our wa~ay'!!" sang de la Somme as his _Gouf Custom_ raced towards the other Zeon suits, the bridge exploding into pieces behind him, its supports falling into the river below.  Steppenwolf belted out its tune to the entire city, and de la Somme was in his element._

"_Tornado One, halt at the last block of the city and lay down covering fire on that particle cannon._"  That was Roberts, getting ready to do that Marine thing and open a big juicy hole in the defensive perimeter of the base.  The base itself had not fired on the Zeon yet, their presence in the city too great a threat to risk blowing up a bunch of civilians.

"Copy that, Marine One, but I've got a better idea.  Do your thing while I keep the dorks busy."

Roberts' voice was as startled as the Marine got.  "_What?  Tornado One, don't—_"

De la Somme's _Gouf Custom _didn't even slow down as it ran past the rest of the Zeon suits, skirting past van Allen's _Gelgoog Cannon_ without even nudging it or breaking stride, and flung itself into the open kill zone around the base.

"Hang on back there!" he called back to Erik, as the base commenced fire on his position.  At what he presumed was the pre-sightings, he had a pair of particle cannons and about five Calliope launchers targeting him.  This would be a cinch.

"_Tornado One, are you freakin' insane??"  The _Command Gelgoog_ that de la Somme cruised past leveled its beam machinegun and opened fire, trying to knock out one of the turrets without hitting the _Gouf Custom_ that was cutting into everyone's line of fire._

Erik clutched at the sides of his crash chair as the suit bucked and bounced under and around him.  He could barely hear de la Somme's voice over the noise of the _Gouf Custom_ and the music, but for some reason he was not afraid.  Rather, he was curiously attentive to what was happening around them.  A scorching line from a particle cannon lashed towards them, but the Zeon suit sidestepped the bolt and continued its advance.  It did the same to the second cannon's wrath with contemptuous ease.  Zeon energy weapons began to track on the cannons from their own positions.

De la Somme snickered into the comm in response to Weissdrake's question, the guitar bridge of 'Born To Be Wild' blaring around him.  "Not me, baby!  I'm just _goin' home!!"_

Roberts and van Allen began their approach as the attention of the Federation gunners fixed itself on the lone Zeon suit that was making a mockery of their attempts to harm it.  The particle beams, designed for one long unidirectional stream of energy that would penetrate the strongest armor, scored their hate on the earth itself around the speeding _Gouf Custom_, vaporizing snow and soil in a nanosecond of intense heat.  

"These losers couldn't hit me if I were standing still!" sang out the pilot.  "In fact, that's what I'll do!"  And with a shudder, the _Gouf Custom_ slid to a halt.  It gave the finger to the base, then wagged both its hands in a mocking gesture.  The volume of fire from the particle cannons began to increase.  Inside the _kaserne itself, he could make out the movements of vehicles, seeing them with his main camera.  They were rolling tanks up to meet the Zeon mobile suits at the perimeter, leaving the interior of the base open for ravishing.  He smiled evilly and licked his teeth, beginning his advance again, but at a slow walk, shifting the suit from side-to-side to evade the incoming particle bursts._

"'_Like a true--nature's chi~ld!  We were **born**--**born to be wi~ld**!!  We can **climb so hi~gh!!  I **never wan~na die**'!!"**_  De la Somme was laughing in glee, even as his suit remained untouched by the fury of the Federation guns.  A flash seared the soil just in front of the _Gouf Custom's_ feet, but that was the closest the enemy had gotten with the big guns.  His increased his speed from the walk to a trot, then a run again.

Then the Calliopes added their tune to the symphony.

Bonn, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe November 13, 0087 

". . .The fixed Calliopes were the eight-barrelled variant, with a cyclic fire rate of four missiles every three seconds.  Their original design was anti-armor, to destroy conventional tanks and IFVs in the open field, guided in by radar.  In a Minovsky-laden environment, they're nothing more than fire-and-forget mixed shaped-charge and antipersonnel fragmentation and high explosive boomers.  From the initial direction of the Zeon approach, five fixed launchers began their barrage at a distance of three klicks from the center of the base, which was the air traffic control tower.  That's short-range for missiles of that type."  The Captain had begun to undercut Sajer's Jell-O superiority by wielding a tool of his own to lay claim to the cubes.  The Jell-O was rapidly dwindling as the briefing continued, and Edgrove's eyes grew more and more desperate at each subtraction from the plate.

Balke pointed at a dense cluster of craters with the plastic fork, then at a collection of rubble at the edge of the city itself, beyond the kill zone.  "The first wave of missiles were grouped here, in a space measuring about half a kilometer in diameter.  Notice the roughly circular pattern of dispersal.  Also, notice the lack of anything within the blast pattern.  The second wave was reset for direct fire on a linear plane as opposed to the more standard artillery arc of fire, and the launchers remained on linear fire throughout the remainder of the engagement.  Its results were the same, with the missiles flying past their target to impact in the city itself. . ."

Kassel, Hessen, Central Europe November 12, 0087 

The roaring of the Calliope rocket gun emplacements overcame even the ear-piercing volume of Steppenwolf, as their thunder poured from the barrels into a lazy arc that would intersect the approaching _Gouf Custom_.  Twenty missiles rained down on the position of the Zeon suit, hiding it in smoke and fire and flying earth.  From the haze, the _Gouf Custom_ raced out of the firestorm, unharmed, trailing smoke behind it like the folds of a shroud, wisps streaming from the spikes on its armor.  

The particle cannons in a direct barrage, which passed futilely underneath the camouflaged mobile suit as it kicked on its thrusters and powerjumped over the incoming fire, joined the next group of twenty missiles.  The particle beams diffused into the atmosphere after some distance, but the missiles themselves plowed into the suburbs, turning buildings into deathtraps and charnel houses.  The barrage following that one was mockingly cartwheeled around, a missile passing between the upraised legs of the _Gouf Custom_ as it balanced on its fingertips and completed the maneuver.

On the western bank of the Fulda river, the majority of the population of Kassel watched as one mobile suit made a mockery of the firepower of the Federation base.  As a stray missile lanced into the river, exploding in the depths and kicking up water and muck over the civilian rubberneckers, and they withdrew several steps as they realized that the river itself would afford them little protection against the fortunes of mobile war.  In typical civilian fashion, curiosity remained a greater force than self-preservation.

Fires began burning on the eastern half of the city, as more and more missiles went wild and impacted in the populated districts.  The eastern shore of the river was crowded with people trying to get away from the conflict, all to no avail.  With the bridges destroyed and traffic a wreck along the riverside for miles, it was a disaster.  Some tried to swim the river and were swept away by the current.  Pandemonium reigned supreme.

The _Gouf Custom_ landed and spread its arms wide, daring the base to continue its efforts to harm it.  "'**_BOOO~RN to be WI~LD!!!_**'" bellowed the voice of the pilot in time with the song, ending it with a derisive laugh that made the blood run cold.  

On the _Wilhelmshoehe_ hill, several kilometers from the base, von Mellenthin snorted.  "Grandstander, still.  He'll never change."

Von Seydlitz reached out for the field glasses, but was ignored.  He scowled at his older brother for hogging the glasses.

"They're bringing Type-61s up, and their two-barrelled Calliope missile tanks.  Antares will make fools of them, too."  The General changed his view.  "Roberts is about to make life a living hell for those particle emplacements.  They're paying so much attention to Antares they're ignoring the _Gelgoogs_ altogether.  I told you we'd find a use for the slap mines from those _Kaempfers."_

With a snap of a long arm, von Seydlitz snatched the field glasses from von Mellenthin and brought them up to his own eyes.  "The slap mines will be sufficient to eliminate the guns.  Then they can engage the Federation armor at will.  A half-dozen tanks are no threat, anyway."

Von Mellenthin swiped at the field glasses, but von Seydlitz shifted away, and the grasping hand caught nothing but air.

"Hmmm," mused von Seydlitz, "curious."

"What?"

"The speed at which the Federals are leaving the interior of their _kaserne unguarded.  I do not think I like it."_

With a stretch, von Mellenthin yanked the field glasses away from von Seydlitz, who slowly turned his head and glared at the General.  Von Mellenthin watched as another missile swarm passed harmlessly over the speeding _Gouf Custom, _detonating within the town.  The Feds would do their sacking for them at this rate.  "Their Thistle scout helicopters are starting up."

"I will take your word for it, _Generalmajor_."

"Get your own glasses if you want to see the show, _Oberst_."

Bonn, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe November 13, 0087 

". . .Initial penetration of the base was made by a single mobile suit at 0637 hours.  By this point, the Calliopes had fired off a total of two hundred and forty missiles, all without hitting a single Zeon suit, mostly due to Minovsky interference and slow response time by manual gunners.  Flanking units of what we've determined were _Gelgoog_-types blew the particle cannon emplacements with slap-on demolition mines, but despite the loss of the two cannon the battle wasn't a foregone conclusion.  The Type-61s had yet to be engaged by the enemy.  There were six Thistle scout helicopters on station, and the eight-wheeled Calliope launchers.  By this point, the base commander had finally gotten around to sending a call for help. . ."

They were down to one Jell-O cube now, and it was being chased around the plate in a duel of plastic forks.  The _scritch-scritch_ sound of the tines on the plate as the Captains dueled for the lone red gelatin cube did not even break Balke's rhythm.

Kassel, Hessen, Central Europe November 12, 0087 

Another Calliope missile screamed towards the onrushing _Gouf Custom, ten of its brethren behind it, traveling at the speed of sound; but to de la Somme, it was as though they were moving in slow motion, while he and his mobile suit were greased lightning.  His perception, fully extended throughout his __Gouf Custom like it always was in combat, "saw" the streaking projectiles as they approached to bring violent death to its wielder's foes. Each of them was a representation of how much the Federation hated him and his brothers and his people._

He laughed, as he always did.  A hair's breadth before the first missile graced the armor of his mobile suit with its hell-sown touch, the _Gouf Custom leapt aside, evading it as it had all the others like it._

"**_It's just a JUMP—to the left!!" he howled over the speakers, which were just wrapping up Steppenwolf.  The missile continued on its way, even as the mobile suit dodged the rest of the batch, to find its end elsewhere.  "_****_And a step to the ri-i-i-i~ght!!"_**

In the distance, the particle cannons were silenced with two sharp explosions, as the demolition mines that Roberts and van Allen had placed detonated, ruining the energy weapons.  The remaining particle guns on the fixed emplacements were too limited in firing arc to be useful, unlike the Calliope launchers with their 360-degree arcs of fire.

With a hop, a skip, and a jump, de la Somme's suit leapt the simple chain-link and concertina wire fence dividing the base from the civilian world outside it, and he had yet to fire a shot or be touched by an enemy's weapons.  That very nearly changed, as a ground burst flung mud across the lower half of the _Gouf _Custom's legs.  The red mono-eye swiveled to glare at a Type-61 tank, one that had rolled up and hid behind a Calliope launcher to take a potshot at the advancing Zeon.  It never got the chance for a second shot, as a sturmfaust from one of the _Kaempfers_ announced their arrival on the scene, turning the Type-61 into metal shavings.

"Meanie-faces are _stealing my fun!_" snarled the ace pilot, kicking the _Gouf Custom_ into high gear as the three _Kaempfers raced past him at a speed the __Gouf Custom could not hope to match.  The Calliope launcher behind him erupted into flame as it took a bazooka round on its base, silenced forever, its killer spinning away from the column of smoke and fire, thrusters flaring yellow._

"_Eat our dust, shitball!_" spat Margul over the unit 'push', exploding the egg-shaped air defense radar with a bazooka round.

"You think you bad, monkeyfucker?  You think _you_ bad?  Eat you face, I will someday," muttered de la Somme, devil's smile on his face.  "I show you _baaa~ad_, make you head spin and ass close."

The faster and nimbler _Kaempfers_ swarmed through the base, putting mixes of hypershot and HE rounds into the mobile suit hangars and any other building or structure they could see.  Behind them, the Foxe twins' _Gelgoog Jaegers_ 110mm machinecannons riddled the waffle-shaped Doppler radar on the far side of the landing strip, before turning their fire on the Type-61s that threatened their rears, their weird synchronicity in play as they wove in and out of the hangars and the support buildings, avoiding even the _Kaempfers_' fire.  The exchange of large-caliber munitions and energy bolts began to thicken as the tanks moved into formation and charged.

De la Somme flung his _Gouf Custom _at the air control tower.  When he reached it, he began to climb it, laughing as the people inside recoiled in terror and began to flee at the sight of his suit's red mono-eye glaring at them through their windows.

"**_WOMAN!!_**" he growled through the amplifier, the fingers of his suit encountering no real resistance as he reached into the tower control center, clawing at the people inside who were scrambling to get out of the tower.  The fingers closed around a person, who struggled in vain to escape the clutching hand.  The _Gouf Custom_ scaled the rest of the tower, its huge feet locked in place in what used to be the control room.  It brushed off the communications antennae array from the top of the tower and reared to its full height, banging a fist on its chest like King Kong.

On the airfield, the Thistle scout 'copters took off under the weathering streams of 110mm warshots, the hail of incoming fire destroying two of the nimble little helos before they could take off.  A flash of light from the tri-barrelled missile launcher on the forearm of van Allen's _Gelgoog Cannon_ touched off the hydrogen fuel cells that kept the aircraft going, vaporizing the helicopter hangars and setting every other structure in the vicinity aflame. 

A Type-61's 150mm round deflected off of Roberts' _Gelgoog Marine Commander's_ shield, cracking it and staggering the suit, but the tank was immolated as Weissdrake's own _Command Gelgoog_ bathed it in energy.  The Federation tank exploded, its turret flipping end over end into the air.  The tankers poured on all the speed and fire they could, but it was inordinately hard to hit a target that could simply step aside from the incoming rounds, or leap over them, and the taller suits had elevation on their lower-to-the-ground opponents, whose rooftops were thinly armored.  Reiter's _Kaempfer alighted on top of a Type-61, the tank shuddering under the crushing impact of 60 tons of mobile suit landing on top of it.  The evil-looking passenger ratcheted a round into its mammoth shotgun and fired between its own two-toed feet, the hypershot piercing the thinner top armor of the Type-61's turret with little difficulty at a range of one meter.  The Zeon suit's thrusters fired, catapulting the machine up and away from its kill just before the ammunition storage bay exploded, turning the main battle tank into a burning hulk._

The red mono-eye of the _Gouf Custom_ glimpsed its thrashing captive.  "**_YOU'RE no woman!_**" roared de la Somme, casually tossing the shrieking man (who looked to be a Federation officer) over the spiked shoulder of his suit.  A Thistle buzzed past, twin 20mm chain guns chattering at a _Gelgoog Jaeger, even as the _Gouf Custom_ leaned to the side to avoid an incoming Calliope missile, which flew on past to destroy another hundred yards of asphalt and earth.  The rest of the stationary launchers were coming to the aid of the beleaguered Federation armor, and their destructive rain began to fall again, heedless of the people running on foot across the flatness of the base, fleeing burning buildings or wrecked vehicles to escape the Zeon. _

The monstrous suit straddled atop the air traffic control tower banged both hands on its chest this time, its pilot making gorilla noises, still evading everything the Federation shot at it.  A surviving Type-61 elevated its guns and spat its hatred at the Zeon suit, the rounds falling short and blowing out the interior of the tower.

De la Somme felt the entire tower shudder under the impact.  Miraculously, not only did it remain standing, it was even strong enough to hold up the weight of the 63-ton mobile suit after the fact.  He giggled even as he dodged another missile.  "Heh!  I think I've got their attention!  What say we give 'em the _loud sound?"_

Erik did not respond.  He was in shock at the battle raging around him, his NewType senses becoming overwhelmed with information, most of it horrifying.  The Commonality reeled from the impact of it all, as their advanced consciousness melded with the naiveté of children came to grips with the truth of war.

Behind the tower, the earth began to move.

Bonn, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe November 13, 0087 

". . .After the last of the tanks were eliminated, the Zeeks had a field day with the base, destroying everything they could get their guns on.  Even the airfield was cratered into uselessness.  The Calliopes shot their wads into the interior of the base, trying to pick off the Zeek suits, but the quarters were too close for them to be effective.  As it was, the misses from the initial barrages had set fire to the city itself, and it was burning quite nicely despite the best efforts of the civilian emergency services that were able to get to the combat zone.  By this point, the 77th decided to make its presence known, using the tunnel system underground—"

"Tunnels?  You hid a battalion _underground_??" Sajer glared daggers at Edgrove.  He had been pouting after losing the last Jell-O cube to a triumphant Balke, who had cheated horribly by trapping Sajer's fork with his own and then grabbing the cube with his fingers for the victory.

"Don't feel bad, Sajer.  I didn't know about it either." Balke shrugged, chewing slowly.

"Security of information," buzzed the subvocal transmitter.  "And resources."

Balke crossed his arms across his chest, swallowing the remains of the Jell-O.  "You've got to be able to think about it from the Federation's point of view, Captain.  Ever since the AEUG began making serious trouble in space, the Federation has been pulling everything it can off of Earth and putting it into orbit to put out fires that the Titans won't.  Then came the brilliant idea to occupy the Philippines using martial law, and that took pretty much everything Titan out of Europe.  Now you can see the results of that grand fucking idea, so why _not_ hide a few tanks and their crews from the registry?"

"Because you didn't have the _right!" bellowed Sajer, face red as he glared at Edgrove.  "You and the rest of the Federation have got a lot of shit to answer for, __Colonel, and rest assured that you __will."_

Tapping his foot impatiently, Balke sighed:  "This isn't a Titans pep rally, Assclown.  Just press the fuckin' button."

Sajer complied, breath escaping tight lips in a hiss.   _How many more of these injustices will I have to endure?_

**Kassel, Hessen, Central Europe**

**November 12, 0087**

"**_BRING THA NOIII~ISE!!"_**

Extending its left arm to its fullest, the 75mm Gatling machinecannon of de la Somme's _Gouf Custom roared with the sound of the sky unzipping itself.  The entire mobile suit shook with the ferocity of its primary weapon cutting loose at full burn.  Lines of tracer fire stitched their way across time and space to riddle the fixed Calliope emplacements with destruction.  While his weapon tore the missile launchers apart, de la Somme continued to laugh, a demon-possessed Woody Woodpecker kind of cackle that made one's hair stand on end and heart begin to race._

"I'm surprised the building doesn't collapse from the weight.  He's been balanced up there for a long time now."   Von Mellenthin watched as six Calliope emplacements burst into flames.

"He is wasting too much ammunition.  We have little enough 75mm as it is."

"When he runs out of ammunition, it'll be his own fault.  He was warned."  A surviving Thistle unleashed a pair of wire-guided anti-tank missiles at Royce Foxe's _Gelgoog Jaeger, which dove out of the way to avoid them.  Another Thistle buzzed its way towards de la Somme's perched suit, preparing its chain guns for a strafing run._

The roar of the 75mm ceased abruptly, and de la Somme's voice called out "**_Get over here!!" as the e-whip lashed out of the __Gouf Custom's right arm at the Thistle that was hovering and firing on the __Gelgoog Jaeger.  The magnetic lash pierced the fuselage of the Thistle just aft of the vented exhaust ports, ruining the drive train of the main rotor and demolishing its engine.  De la Somme retracted the e-whip, drawing the ensnared Thistle to his suit, which he grabbed in his gigantic hands.  The second Thistle raked the __Gouf Custom with fire, but did too little damage to the suit before it interposed the crippled scout helicopter between it and its attacker.  As the high-velocity 20mm shells perforated its brother Thistle, the pilot of the aggressor helicopter ceased fire abruptly and began a low-power climb to get behind the stationary Zeon.  It did not proceed very far, as de la Somme threw the captive Thistle at the other helicopter.  The two collided, then exploded into a ball of flame and shrapnel.  The pilot's howl of jubilation was deafeningly loud._**

"Well," said von Mellenthin, lowering the glasses, "I would say we have this well in hand."

"Indeed."  A tremendous explosion shook the earth beneath their mobile suits' feet, as Roberts and van Allen destroyed the main power generator station of the base with concentrated fire.  The entire sky was illuminated by the detonation.  Von Seydlitz squinted, his better-than-average eyes catching something.  "What is that moving behind the tower?"

Von Mellenthin also squinted, then put his eyes to the glasses again.  "I don't see---_wait!  That's a __doorway!"_

His foster brother was already talking into his radio.  "Tornado One!  Behind you!"

Erik cried out as the world erupted again into the loudest noise he had ever heard, and he clapped his hands over his ears as the 75mm Gatling shrieked its fury towards the Federation.  Its staccato _grrrr-ing__ was punctuated by basso __whumps as Calliope wheeled vehicles blew apart, and the maniacal laughter of someone whom he thought he knew.  To spare his fellow Commons the empathic shock he was struggling to control, he refused to allow his consciousness to deviate from his individual self._

As it was, the terror he was feeling from being in a war zone was nothing compared to the thought that he had been betrayed by his own emotions.  He had spoken up for Antares against the wishes of the Commonality, believing that the bizarre Zeon pilot was different from his brothers, that he could be used as a means to prevent the ascension of an evil that would brutalize people for its own pleasure; that the man who had become his kidnapper and his friend could be convinced that the Electors and their way was wrong.  Erik knew now, however, that his idea may have been futile from the start.  He had made a tactical error in judgment, because while "Uncle" Antares was not one of the gene-enhanced ruling class of New Koenigsberg, he _was a product of their ruthless culture and merciless way of life, and had survived it.  To make matters worse, that environmental condition had merged itself at some level with the fact that Antares de la Somme was about two steps shy of becoming a NewType like the Commonality, but one suited only for war and destruction.  A wild form of the next step in evolution, a freak of nature as opposed to something designed by a godlike Man, possessed with the bloodlust of a people who cared only about domination and power over those weaker than themselves and justified it under a mask of higher responsibility towards their "subjects".  Antares fed on the exhilaration of combat, and it, in turn, fed on him in a symbiotic relationship compounded by the mobile suit, the greatest instrument of mobile armored warfare yet developed._

And for the first time since his encounter with the harsh and implacable psyche that was Reinhardt von Seydlitz, Erik began to be very afraid for the future.

But there was another facet to this situation:  _he_ was beginning to enjoy it as well.  There was a thrill to it all, like a hollow spot in his stomach that only the violence could fill.  Knowing that one mistake would be enough to end it all right now, but that you and you alone had the courage to face death and spit on it.  The sensations were cold as the air outside on his skin, but inside he felt feverish, and his whole body trembled from it.  Even at his early age, his consciousness recognized a kinship with this way of "life", and its presence was both troubling and soothing to him at a very deep level.  

Even as his mind recoiled from the horror of it, his soul reached out and attempted to embrace it, and he bit his lip to keep from crying out at it all as he finally realized that he and his kind, indeed, were created for this exact purpose.

"_Tornado One!  Behind you!" barked out of the speaker into the cockpit, overriding even the noise of the 75mm, intelligible even with the static that accompanied all Minovsky-permeated activities._

De la Somme slewed the torso of the _Gouf Custom around as far as it would twist, then snapped the mono-eye camera around.  The main screen was filled with the image of a doorway opening in the earth, and the armored form of a Type-61 emerged from its mouth.  The paired 150mm main cannons began to elevate towards the perched mobile suit._

"Holy _shit!!" exclaimed the pilot incredulously.  "The enemy's gate really _is_ down!  __Hang on back there!!"_

He knew that the tank had friends right behind it, just as he knew that it was probably telling its friends that it was going to pop this Zeek suit in the ass with the money shot, then make left for another target and for them to back him up.  In the split instant as both 150mm guns fired, he jumped off of the air control tower, arcing backwards and somersaulting in midair.

The 150mm shells blew the tower apart, spraying chunks of hardened concrete and steel into the air along with their former passenger.  Reaching its apex, the 63-ton mobile suit plunged to the earth, slamming its left elbow down onto the top turret housing of the Type-61.  The thinner armor crumpled like tinfoil under the impact, and the whole tank shuddered, black smoke spewing from its engine covers and its tracks chewing up mud and sludge as they sank into the earth under the jarring weight.  The mangled turret was stove in, its twin barrels splayed out at different angles.  After a moment, the tank's turret attempted to pivot to possibly push the _Gouf Custom that was pinning it in place off of it, but all it did was make a hideous grinding sound as the gyros tore themselves apart.  The commander's hatch opened, and the face that appeared was frozen in shock at the sight of Zeon mobile suit lounging on his tank._

De la Somme figured the wounded tank was still in this fight, even with the loss of its turret, but his main camera was looking behind and below the first Type-61, down a ramp into an underground facility he'd known nothing about.  He could see two other Type-61s readied at the ramp to ascend.  Letting the left arm drop, shield settling on the ground, he pointed the 75mm into the ramp at the lead tank and fired.  The flabbergasted tank commander retreated back into his vehicle, closing the hatch against the rain of hot 75mm shell casings.  

The hypervelocity warshots _spannged off of the frontal armor of the Type-61 at first, then the armor gave way under the barrage and the vehicle exploded, flame billowing from the doorway, blocking its pals from exiting.  With the right arm, de la Somme pulled a green-striped grenade from the skirting armor of his suit, popped the top, and then tossed it down the ramp, following it up with two more.  He rolled the suit off of the damaged Type-61 and clambered to his feet, putting a single round into the elbow-dropped tank's engine housing to finish it off before jumping away from the ramp entrance._

Throughout the compound, Type-61s were materializing from underground, and the Zeon reacted swiftly to contain the situation.  De la Somme landed somewhere near a beam-riddled mobile suit hangar, just as the grenades he had chucked down into the underground facility blew up.

Von Mellenthin breathed out a sigh of relief.  "That took care of that.  The bastards had another base underground."

"Which explains their willingness to leave it virtually undefended, then open up its interior to our advance.  If we had been down in that fight, we may not have noticed that door opening until it was too late."

The General snorted.  "Antares would have been knocked on his ass first, then we would have known.  He's as wonderful to watch as ever.  They couldn't touch him."

"Yes," concurred von Seydlitz.  "Let us hope his abilities hold out, like everyone else's must."

"Hmmm?" mused von Mellenthin, throwing a sidelong glance at the Colonel.  "You having doubts already?"

"I always doubt the continuation of my ability to react to the unknown on the basis of pure luck."

"Never one to leave anything to chance, still."  The General grinned.  "You will be careful, won't you?  I'm looking forward to seeing if this Steinbaum thing works as well as you've advertised.  It would be a shame to have to posthumously admit that you were right."

"And miss the opportunity for you to laud my treacherous, devious, and obviously superior tactical mind?  Never."  Von Seydlitz checked his watch.  "Time to go."  He stuck out a hand and waved it up and down three times.  The trees rustled, shaking snow from their branches, as Haskell's _Zaku Cannon_ and Dalyev's _Zaku Kai_ slid between the massive trunks and out into the open.  The humming whine of the _Doms_ powering up filled the air.

Von Mellenthin smiled warmly at his younger brother.  "Blood and power, _Oberst_ von Seydlitz."  He stuck out his arm, fist clenched.

Von Seydlitz touched the General's clenched fist with the knuckles of his own.  "Blood and power, _Generalmajor_ von Mellenthin.  See you in Steinbaum."  He turned and jumped down the arm of his _Gouf Custom_, swinging himself into the cockpit and closing the hatch behind him.  The red mono-eye flared to life, focusing on von Mellenthin as the suit moved off to follow its _Zaku_ teammates, touching the bunched barrels of the 75mm Gatling to its head in a farewell salute.

About a dozen Federation tanks had made it to the surface.  The rest were immolated as the grenades' blasts fed on everything it could, chain-reacting through the passageways and setting off fuel cells and ammunition carts.  The fire spread until it reached the main ammunition dump for the base, cooking off the tons of rounds stroed there.  The Type-61s still below were consumed in a firestorm, their own munitions cooking off from the heat of the tremendous conflagration.  The earth bucked and writhed as the facility below was torn apart from the explosions, and then collapsed in on itself.  Great pits formed as the tunnel system became trenches that vented flames from below.  

A 150mm buzzed past the _Gouf Custom close enough that it could be heard inside the suit as it twisted to avoid the incoming round.  "Damnation!!  Their fire discipline's as good as ever!  I gotta give the Feddies that much, at least!"  De la Somme backflipped the suit until he'd put the remains of a hangar between himself and the enemy. _

The remaining Type-61s put up an impressive fight considering the demoralizing loss of unknown amounts of their friends, but they all died just the same.  The tanks operated on an "envelop-then-destroy" mentality that was useful against other tanks, but not real grand against mobile suits that were faster and more advanced than _Zakus_.

"Better them than me," he muttered out loud before keying his comm.  "Tornado One to Unsullied One:  mission successful.  Enemy neutralized.  No friendly casualties, minimal damage sustained.  All their base are belong to us, sir."

De la Somme could almost feel the flinch as he added the last line, before von Seydlitz responded: "_Acknowledged, Tornado One.  Proceed with the second phase of the operation, then withdraw to meet Lion One and friendlies at grid reference point 99A at best speed."_

"Got it, Colonel."  He watched on the main camera as von Seydlitz's _Gouf Custom and its two __Zaku-type escorts emerged from the city on the far side of the river, the civilians giving the strolling mobile suits a wide berth.  Then, like the others, he turned his attention to the burning eastern half of the city._

**Bonn, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe**

**November 13, 0087**

". . .forensic evidence suggests that the Zeeks didn't get out of this one untouched.  Some of their suits may actually be crippled now, but what we do know is that we didn't kill any of them.  I'm reasonably confident that had the 77th managed to hit them with the full force of their numbers, the 10th might have been down a couple of suits before having to meet Cramer's people."

"Does that blustering hick even know yet, or is he still showing his troops how to jerk off in Magdeburg?" asked Sajer.

"Yeah. he knows.  He's hot-pissed and looking for someone to kill, and that's what brings me to the rest of this briefing.  After they got done trashing the base down to the last structural support, they moved on the eastern half of the city, to finish what the Calliopes started, and it's these events that really don't make sense when applied to the pattern of behavior the 10th _Panzerkaempfer has previously used."  Balke shifted the picture to the city itself, with the destroyed buildings marked in red, with several buildings outlined in light green._

"Banks, train and rail stations, police forces, emergency rescue, fuel stations, radio towers, power generators, factories, infrastructure for maintenance of a standard of living in any urban environment.  All standard targets for a war of attrition and punishment against a civilian population; the same population they went out of their way to _protect during the War."_

"Casualties?" asked Edgrove, steeling himself for the worst.

"In the thousands.  They torched the eastern half of the city pretty good, and knocked a few buildings down for good measure.  They deliberately avoided the western half."

Sajer tilted his head slightly.  "So someone got mad at the Krauts for something.  Big deal.  What's it  mean to anything else?"

"It means," said Balke, rubbing his eyes with the fingers of a hand, "that the game has changed.  Rather than become the benevolent dictatorship, von Mellenthin's out for fear and tyranny.  The public is outraged by it, and most of Europe is screaming for someone to do something about it.  If they weren't pissed off about the whole Nemesis scare, then burning a city has really got them hacked at von Mellenthin.  But he won't care what Earthers think if he's here to subjugate them, so we can't take anything for granted now, except that we know that they aren't going to Berlin."

"How do we know that?" asked Edgrove.

"They spelled it out for Cramer.  Open the on-scene aerial photography file, Captain, and bring up the first shot."

Sajer complied, and a word appeared on the screen, black-etched on a gray background.  "'Steinbaum'?"

Balke nodded.  "The bastards wrote it in machine gun fire on the surface of the airfield, plain as day.  It's a town in Lower Saxony, which is northwest, not east, of Kassel.  If they're going to Berlin, they're taking the really long route.  Cramer's mobilized again and is going to give chase on land.  He's too angry to be reasoned with now.  His XO's pretty stable, though, and I'm hoping she can talk him down, because this is a trap, plain and simple.  Von Mellenthin's playing him like a puppet, but he thinks his guns and suits can get him through.  They touch down in Korbach in a few hours, then deploy for pursuit."

"Don't try to stop him, but try and make Cramer understand that it's up to him now," said Edgrove.  "If he doesn't beat them, what happened to Kassel and Bonn may happen to someplace else.  What're we doing in the meantime?"

Balke coughed, then cleared his throat.  "Not a lot.  I've got  a few eyes in the sky looking for those other two barges and the Zeek fish suits now, and the EFS _Erebus and her task force is blocking the exit point of the Waal River and is sweeping inland with smaller ships to intercept them before they cross Nijmegen and the Luxembourg/Lower Saxony border.  The Academy is on full alert, and they've managed to cobble together some makeshift beach-based depth charge and ASROC launchers to hit the Zeeks with if they do cruise by, as well as the trainer suits with whatever armaments they could mount on them.  I've also got aerial recon trying to track the 10th's suits, but as long as they hide in the forests they'll be hard to spot without ground recon, too, and we just don't have the manpower for that while we're still looking for delivery systems for Nemesis.  Bryton's on his way to Kassel, and he's tracing the phosphorus that was used here.  I've been keeping Dakar notified of what's been happening, but I don't think the fuckers are listening to me, so I may keep my sitreps to myself."_

"Do as you're told, Captain," said Edgrove and Sajer in unison.

A shadow moved over the light from outside, darkening the room for a moment.  After an equally long moment of silence in the room, Balke spoke again:  "There _was one exception to the destruction list that I'm still puzzling out, because it doesn't make any sense to me whatsoever."_

"What?  They stage a panty-raid on the university dorms at the same time they sacked Kassel?"

"You must've been the life of the party at Nijmegen, Assclown.  How'd you ever graduate thinking such dirty things about people?"  Balke ignored the upraised middle finger and walked over to the wall, tapping a finger on one of the green-illuminated structures.  "This one here was of no value whatsoever, but it was singled out for pillage despite that, the only one in its sector of town."

Another shadow fell over the windows.  Balke looked at Edgrove.  "It was a toy store. . ."

**Kassel, Hessen, Central Europe**

**November 12, 0087**

With a crash, the twelve-story office tower landed on a fuel station, which promptly blew itself apart and began to burn everything around it with glee.  The _Gouf Custom straightened itself out after committing itself to the shoulder tackle that had toppled the previously-damaged structure._

"Ooo, lordy, this-un be _big fun!" said de la Somme sarcastically.  As much the combat addict that he was, he hated doing what he called 'menial warfare'.  This was 'menial warfare' at its lowest, and it did the song currently playing no justice whatsoever; Elvis Presley had been a soldier, too, after all, and 'Suspicious Minds' was almost lazy enough to keep up with this job.  As it was, he refused to use any more valuable ammunition on the buildings, choosing instead to knock them down with brute force in a pattern only he could contemplate, and he was coming down from his battle-high very swiftly. _

"God, how I miss the War!  _That was a trip, lemme tell you.  Half-starving all the time, grabbing Feddie ammo and equipment to keep yours in the fight, marching and marching and marching through hills and woods and mountains and snow and marshlands.  Weather so dismal that that you lived in your suit just for the heater.  Bein' so tired you wanted to throw up and pass out, but too afraid to go to sleep because you might miss something that you'd never seen before.  Deet always knowing what to do whenever we ran into a fight, and always __moving, never standing still but for a coupla times and those were __never his idea.  Everything smelling like a fight, too, everything and everyone, and you didn't care after a while 'cause everything smelled the same given enough time in it.  And you didn't give a rat's ass 'cause it was the War, the one to get what we were promised, the one to set the order of things for the rest of time, the one to put Space on top.  But it didn't happen that way, and now. . .now we just got this to keep us going.  I'm thinking of retiring after this one, though.  This'll be my last campaign for Zeon.  I'll go back to Granada and settle down and raise a bunch of kids who'll always have a father because they need one and no one needs to be like you and me."  The pilot whistled nostalgically as he thought back for a moment.  "No one needs that." _

The fist of the _Gouf Custom lashed out, knocking the head off of a spinning plastic Ronald McDonald as it passed by.  "So, I was wondering what you were thinking of doing when this was all over, and you're free again, 'cause Space can be great if you've got a guide, and the view's so much better from orbit . . ." de la Somme's voice trailed off as the muffled sounds of sobbing came from behind him.  _

Twisting around in his seat to investigate, he almost strangled himself on the crash straps.  Gagging, he brought the _Gouf Custom to a halt and unbuckled himself, swinging inside the cockpit until his knees were on the chair seat and he was looking over the top to the tiny rear space.  He saw the huddled form of Erik shaking in misery, and his own face began to crack.  "H-hey, buddy?  What's wrong, man?  You hurt?"_

He reached out to touch the crumpled form, but a hand came up fast and swatted his away before he could make contact.  The tear-streaked face that stared at him was an equal mixture of anger and pain.  "_YES!" screamed Erik, teeth bared in grief and something. . .else._

De la Somme recoiled from the force of the emotions pouring from this child, speechless.  The _Gouf Custom_ had been banged around quite a bit with this operation, and while he was used to the stresses of his brand of acrobatic combat, he hadn't considered his passenger. 

"_Yes, I'm hurt!!  Don't you understand?"  The child sloppily wiped his running nose on his sleeve, then pointed towards the main camera screen at devastated Kassel outside.  "__This is why I __am!!  __This is why I was _made_!  If I don't have war, what do I have?  __NOTHING!!  What do __any of us have?  __NOTHING!!  We're __monsters, and they'll __kill us, no matter __who wins this war!"_

"No!" said de la Somme, tears beginning to well in his own eyes.  "There's always something else out there, man!  We just gotta find it!  Deet'll let you go once we win, and you can do whatever you want—"

"_But I want THIS!!" shrieked the boy.  "I __feel it inside me!  Like another voice, telling me this is __why!  I __hate myself, Uncle, but I want it, too!  I'm so confused!!"_

The angry face crumbled into abject misery again, and Erik's voice broke.  "And I---I _love it!!"  With a wail, the child buried his face in his knees again, weeping uncontrollably.  "They'll never let us go, Uncle Antares!  __Never!"_

With a bit of a struggle, de la Somme squeezed himself behind the seat and gathered Erik into his arms.  "Listen," he said quietly, letting the boy cry, while crying himself, "there's only been a few people I've ever met who were _made to do something, and I've been around for a while.  We can do what we want whenever we want, because that's what being free is.  I won't let them kill you, or me, or anyone else you don't want them to, and that includes Deet and Reinhardt, okay?  If we gotta, we run away, and they'll never find us where we go.  You're not the only one I've made this promise to, okay, and I haven't broken it yet to them, so I won't to you._

"I've got a little ways to go, just like you do.  I've gotta fight because I care, and because I love it, too, just like you do.  But I gotta give it up someday, and I've always known that.  I know what you're feeling, because I feel it, too, but we have a choice, man.  Come with me to Space when this is over, and we'll build a life after all this war, and we'll still be happy.  I know you haven't got anybody in the world but us, and we kidnapped you and your friends, so I owe you from that.  You were born for war, I was bred for it, but we can both step away from it if we wanna.  People do it all the time, and last I checked, I was people, not monster.  And you were, too."

He leaned Erik back and looked at the big green eyes, wiping his face with his own hands.  "Now put on a happy face, soldier.  Can't let guys like Vlady know we're having doubts, or they'll put frogs in our boots."

Erik's voice was a whisper.  "Thank you."

"Naw, thank _you.  You made me remember what I left behind in Granada."  He pulled a technicolored handkerchief from a uniform sleeve and pressed it to the boy's face.  "Blow, then keep it.  Let's get moving and get this absolutely __disgusting job done with.  I'm sick of wasting my time on buildings and crap."_

He paused in mid-clamber, then turned back to Erik.  "Hey.  Wanna go shopping?"

The boy blinked.  "What do you mean?"

De la Somme pointed and smiled, his entire demeanor changing.  Erik stood up a little unsteadily and looked at what de la Somme was pointing at.  Then he smiled, too, wiping the last traces of his fears from his face.

Reinhardt von Seydlitz's _Gouf Custom halted near the cluster of Zeon mobile suits, and he popped the hatch to see if his eyes were deceiving him.  They were not.  The eastern half of the city was awash in an inferno, as ordered, but his people had not budged from this spot for almost half an hour.  He had dispatched Dalyev and Haskell to their rally point and come to investigate himself.  He had his suspicions about who was behind this idiotic delay, and they were confirmed by what he was seeing at this moment._

With the exception of Margul's _Kaempfers, which had whizzed past him as he'd jumped across the river, the other Zeon suits stood here empty.  At their feet, Antares de la Somme had set up shop, the boy Erik beside him, all smiles.  They each wore what appeared to be sunshades of a truly hideous design, and the Zeon ace pilot was distributing . . .toys._

The look on von Seydlitz's face would have made granite appear soft.  Eyes narrowing, he unstrapped himself from his seat and began the descent to the ground.  De la Somme's voice became clearer as he climbed down his suit.  The wind blew black-and-gray ashes in whorling patterns around him, and its chill was mitigated by the heat of the burning city.  He mused for a brief moment at the idea of hanging around in a conflagration, and how comfortable it was, and he wondered whether or not he was the only one at ease with the environment.  He concluded that while he had disagreed with von Mellenthin's decision to fire Kassel, now that the deed was done it was easier to handle.  Besides, this was Hessen, and that made these people's fates von Mellenthin's to decide, not his.

". . .that's right, make an orphan smile!  _You survived the battle, __you slew the oppressors for the glory of Zeon!  Now show the people you're out to impress that __you still care!  Don't be a sad sack of shit about it, just grab and pass, there's __plenty for everyone!  Hey, no two-sies, pal!  One at a time, please!"  The diminutive ringmaster was sporting totally unnecessary sunglasses whose frames were hot pink and shaped like five-pointed stars._

Von Seydlitz's presence did not go unnoticed, as a chill ran through everyone's bones that had not been there before.  "What are you doing, _Kommandant?" he asked de la Somme in a voice that made the cold air seem tropical in comparison._

"Presents for the kids, Colonel, sir," he said, voice proud and a smirk on his face.  "The one with me," he indicated Erik, whose purple-framed shades were simple circles, but the lenses had hypnotic whorls in them, "got a little rattled with the fighting, so I thought I'd boost some morale.  Nothing wrong with making people laugh, is it?"

The cold gray eyes went even colder.  "You do, of course, realize that we are on a timetable.  Not to mention anything about the mission, _Kommandant de la Somme.  When last I checked, raiding "Toys 'R Us" outlets was not on the program."_

"Yeah," said de la Somme, running a hand over his short hair, "I just thought that—"

Von Seydlitz stepped closer, towering over the ace.  "Get this straight, _Kommandant:  we are not here to boost morale, especially in prisoners.  We are here to accomplish Nemesis, not waste time and resources storing children's toys, or do you intend on throwing stuffed tigers at Federation mobile suits?"_

Erik clutched the stuffed tiger in his hands, and de la Somme bristled.  The other assembled Zeon pilots, including Roberts, watched silently.

Von Seydlitz made a motion with his hand.  "Walk with me, _Kommandant_."  Then he marched behind one the leg of his _Gouf Custom_.

The Zeon collectively winced, and de la Somme sighed and ambled after his commander.  No one relished personal conversations with a displeased Reinhardt von Seydlitz.  He had a way of taking your darkest, most secret worries and smearing them all over your face until you wanted to crawl away.  When de la Somme caught up, the older man was leaning back against the lower leg of the mobile suit.  

"You are going to have to understand," continued von Seydlitz, "that these children may very well die before the end of this."

"Only because of _us, Reinhardt!!" protested de la Somme, yanking the glasses off of his face.  "Only because __we—"_

"_SILENCE." the single word shut de la Somme down like a light switch, von Seydlitz's Command Voice overriding any hope of ignorance.  "The possible ramifications of Nemesis are well-known to you, __Kommandant, and you had your chance to back out of this operation years ago.  Now you will obey, and understand."  Von Seydlitz leaned closer, seeing defiance in de la Somme's eyes.  "__Obey, and __understand, or have you forgotten that we always have the ability to harvest these children's DNA and give their fates to the bio-scholars?"  _

De la Somme went  shock white at those words.  In New Koenigsberg, the bio-scholars held a social position second only to the Electors themselves, and what they wanted, they got.  They were the genetic caretakers, scientists, and clerics of their entire society, and their power to shape the stuff of life was nigh absolute when it applied to improving upon the human creature, and they did not have to be kind about it, either.  They were tasked with creating the superhuman, and both von Seydlitz and von Mellenthin were products of their exhaustive research into altering the genetic structure at the macroevolutionary level.  Their progress was slow, but their successes were worth the long-term planning and waiting and watching and studying, and with every failure they only got closer to greater successes.  

Von Seydlitz almost smiled, but despite the failure of his lips to make the turn upward, his face became cruelly predatory as he continued:  "Clones are just as good as the real thing, and much more. . .malleable in the long run.  A bullet for each of them now ends nothing except your foolish attachment to a Federation weapon with green eyes and a nosy mind.  If _Generalmajor von Mellenthin wills it, it shall be so."_

With a roar, de la Somme leapt at his older foster brother, fists swinging.  Von Seydlitz casually turned the blows aside, then allowed de la Somme to grab him and start slamming him into the foot of his _Gouf Custom._

"_NO!!  I will __NOT ACCEPT **THAT!!  I will **__NOT, do you **HEAR me!?!" de la Somme rammed the much-taller von Seydlitz against the Luna Titanium armor at every syllable.**_

Von Seydlitz did not even blink, as he reached over and grabbed de la Somme by the scruff of his neck, lifting him off the ground with one hand.  The younger man squirmed ineffectually as he dangled like a fish from a hook, clawing at an arm that he could not maintain a grip upon.  Skin muscles, long since deactivated in the human norm gene code, rippled across von Seydlitz's arm, shaking off the clutching fingers with minimal effort.  

"Very impressive emotional reaction, _Kommandant, but hardly of use to anyone, even yourself.  But at least I know you comprehend my words now.  Take no mercies for granted, Antares.  They will become fewer and further between the more you rail against a fate you cannot change.  Remember the question of Power, and that it is by that means the will of Space will give rise to Zeon again.  And _that_ is _all_ that matters now."_

"When did you get so hard, Reinhardt?" asked de la Somme accusingly.  "You used to think atrocity was a tool for the untalented."

It was very hard to see, but something struck home on the older man.  "It is.  Compared to what the Titans do on a daily basis, burning Kassel or slaughtering eight children is a nickel-and-dime operation.  Now, I will do what I can to keep these children as intact as possible, but do _not_ deviate from your orders again, or I will have _you_ be the one to execute them, and then sweep their bloodsoaked scalps into little plastic bags for shipment to the bio-scholars back home.  A more fitting solution to sedition I could not comprehend with immediacy, though I believe given enough time I could contemplate quite a few more that are equally vicious, if not more so than the last."

De le Somme shook his head violently.  "Never happen."

Von Seydlitz spun around, arm swinging, and slammed de la Somme against the cold metal, effectively reversing their positions.  The hand released the back of de la Somme's neck, then grabbed him by the throat before he could begin his descent to the ground, pinning him in place. "Antares, you know that I love you, and you know that  I am the one who has always put your needs first, but you are _not_ indispensible to me, and if you even consider in your remotest thoughts the idea of betraying this Division over these children or some foolish scruple you have managed to hide over these last twenty-four years that will prevent you from carrying out your orders to the fulfillment of Nemesis, I will take extreme pleasure in crushing your bones to paste, locking you in your mobile suit, then burying you and it in a very deep hole here on Terra, alive and alone."

De la Somme had a number of different options, ranging from trying to kick von Seydlitz in the balls to going for his own sidearm with his hand.  He opted for none of them, knowing his foster brother too well to know that all would fail. Fast as he was, von Seydlitz was faster, and could anticipate each choice.

Von Seydlitz leaned forward and inhaled de la Somme's scent, in a similar fashion that a wolf would sniff at a trapped rabbit before snapping its neck in its jaws.  "I trust  I do not have to make my point more clear, do I, Antares?"  The younger man's face was bathed in sweat, and just enough fear that von Seydlitz caught its odor with his enhanced olfactory sense, and von Seydlitz could almost count the whiskers on the unshaved face.  

De la Somme gasped, still clawing feebly at the iron-hard hand under his chin, long fingers framing his face in a grip like tensor bands.  The proximity of von Seydlitz's face was too close for comfort, especially with him doing that sniffing thing he had always hated.  It was downright creepy, and no one liked being sized up like a buffet selection.  Most times, the predatory instincts that were alive and well in von Seydlitz and strengthened by the New Koenigsberg way of life remained below the surface, the beast hidden beneath the noble veneer, but this was becoming dangerous, and this was the only warning the older man would give that someone was about to cross the line with him.  He had to defuse this situation immediately.  "No, sir," he choked out, "just don't lick me, please."

Von Seydlitz gazed into a widened hazel eye.  "I will endeavour to restrain myself from that dubious pleasure."  The anger on the younger pilot's face faded away, then gave way to contrition.  "Good, _Kommandant_.  Do not allow your attachment to that boy weaken your resolve.  If we lose, we all die, and I hold no doubt that the Federation will harvest what it desires from you, from me, from Dietrich, and from these children before they render us into mobile suit lubricant and try again.  Stay on our side, Antares, work with me, and recall this conversation every time you start to wonder about the future."

The other pilot swallowed once, trembling under his gaze.  Von Seydlitz felt something within himself wrench.  He hated having to bully de la Somme into doing anything.  The younger man had been under his wing for so long, this whole scene smacked of betrayal of trust between them.  But von Seydlitz knew that he did not  have the time to go about reinforcing de la Somme's loyalty in the kinder, gentler fashion.  He had to be re-motivated, and now, before his own sense of duty was overpowered by the allure of the NewType candidate.  Children had always been a weakness of de la Somme's, because he could love them indiscriminately and relate to them on a personal level.  But there was something different about de la Somme's reaction this time.  Von Seydlitz disliked most children, and they had quarreled about that topic before, especially after Dornbirn, but de la Somme had never before put children before the interests of his foster brothers, Space, Zeon, and the Race.  To pass it off as being foreign influence from that child NewType would be logical, but tactically unsound.  There was something else behind this.

That was when von Seydlitz realized that there was a silver chain of round links wrapped around his little finger.  He frowned slightly.  Dog tags had never been a facet of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_: identities were implanted subcutaneously in microdot form to prevent loss of identity.  Slowly, von Seydlitz reached out with his free hand and grasped the chain, drawing it out from underneath de la Somme's unform jacket.

The captive squirmed.   "Don't!"

The item on the chain revealed itself as a simple golden band, unadorned and featureless.  Von Seydlitz's heart nearly ceased its beat, and he drew in a breath in a long, sibilant hiss, dangling it before the wide hazel eyes.  "_Was ist das?_"

De la Somme's eyes told him the answer to his question before his voice did: "My wedding band.  I'm married."

"_Wann?_"  A single word, unemotionally delivered.

"About four years ago.  In Granada.  Her name is Candace."

Von Seydlitz closed his eyes for a moment, then snarled.  "This changes things.  Why did you not _tell_ us?"

"I knew you'd be upset, that's why!"   Tears threatened to escape from de la Somme's eyes again.

"You were correct."  With a flick of a wrist, von Seydlitz tossed de la Somme away from him.  The pilot landed on his feet and fingertips, like a cat, about ten feet away, coughing and grasping at  his throat with a hand.  He did not try to attack von Seydlitz again; it was like assaulting an iceberg with one's bare hands.  As great a pilot as de la Somme was, physically he was no match for a New Koenigsberg gene-augmented Elector-Prince.  Few things that walked on two legs were.

"You oughtta be happy, Reinhardt!  You and Deet're uncles now, too!"

A physical blow could not have hit the Colonel harder.  "You've _spawned_?"  In their society, reproduction was strictly controlled by the bio-scholars, to ensure genetic compatibility.  You could get married any time you wanted to, but having children was regulated until genetic deficiencies could be cataloged and/or controlled before fertilization.  It also kept the colony's population at a reasonably-stable three million persons or so.

One of Dietrich von Mellenthin's demands before the War was that every member of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ be male and single, so as not to attach an inordinate amount of grief upon Spacenoid family units (and to keep his people focused on the fighting and their units instead of people they had left behind) in the very likely event that they all perished in combat during Operation Lorelei.  None of them had ever married, and had not planned to until they had returned to Side 3 as conquerors of the Earth Sphere.  De la Somme had violated both strictures in his four year absence from the 10th, and the randy little goat had probably knocked her up first.  Von Seydlitz crossed his arms.  "How many?"

"Two.  Twins.  They're both three now."

Von Seydlitz allowed some level of amusement into his voice.  "Castor and Pollux, I presume?"

De la Somme managed a grin.  "Naw, too cliche.  Polaris and Regulus de la Somme, actually."

For a long moment, they simply stared at each other.  "I will speak with Dietrich about your concerns for the fates of the children.  But you will have to do your part if you desire my continued support in this matter.  Keep your feelings to yourself, and your anger, and your family, and do your job.  You will simply have to trust in me the way you used to, and hope that you will get to see them on Granada again.  I will keep this secret from the others, for now."

De la Somme nodded slowly, tucking the ring back under his uniform jacket.  "Tell him. . .I think the Federation did something really strange to these kids.  Erik likes war, Reinhardt.  It's not normal."

Silence again.  Then: "Finish your distribution, _Kommandant, then get moving.  You, after all, are not the one being left behind with three suits to face the wrath of the 103rd."  Von Seydlitz ran his gray eyes over de la Somme's face.  "Though I believe you would relish it all the same."_

De la Somme's voice rang out as von Seydlitz began to move away.  "How much _more will everything change?  How much more before we're done with all this?"_

Von Seydlitz did not look back, debris crunching under his boots, but his words were clear as a bell:  "Whatever must to win, _Kommandant," he said, extending a hand like a reaper towards the ruin of the city, "or we will be the ones envying __them."_

**Bonn, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe**

**November 13, 0087**

Another shadow crossed over the hospital.  "A _toy store??" exclaimed Sajer, incredulous._

"Yeah," sighed Balke, "I don't know what to make of it, either.  It's a mess anyway, but if they're going to Steinbaum, at least  maybe we can take back the initiative and get this fight going our way instead of theirs."

"If Cramer doesn't stick his stupid head in the vise for them," Sajer snorted.

"I'd expect—" Balke was cut off by a commotion in the hallway, and the door to the room flew open.  Like a death specter, the black-and-red uniform of Titans Major Golan Tizard floated into the room, accompanied by its wearer.  In the hallway, Dorff was backed against the wall, two Titans facing him with their hands on their sidearms.  Two more Titan soldiers flanked Tizard as he entered, standing before the door.

"About time you got here, sir," said Sajer, smirking as Balke went pale.

The Major glanced around the room.  "Quite the powwow we're having, isn't it?" he sussurated in his quiet, velvet-smooth voice.

Edgrove's subvocal transmitter made a spitting sound.  "What are _you doing here?" it buzzed._

"Following orders, sir," replied Tizard.  He pulled a piece of paper from his sleeve, then opened it and read aloud: "'By order of Federal Forces Command and the Assembly at Dakar, in light of the present medical condition of CinC Federal Forces Europe Colonel Lucas Edgrove that prevents his being fit and competent to continue the duties fitting the office, Colonel Edgrove is hereby relieved of command, which now passes to Titans Major Golan Tizard for the duration of the incident and/or until Colonel Edgrove is pronounced fit for duty by a medical professional, whichever condition applies first.'  In other words, I am in command of all forces in Europe now."

Balke took the letter from Tizard's hand and skimmed it.  "The hell you say!  This can't be more than two hours old!"

"Correct, Captain whom-I-presume-is-Camael Balke.  I received that letter just after I received orders to mobilize the 54th TTAB, which is above us as I speak."  The narrow fingers of Tizard's right hand twiddled in the air, directed at the ceiling.

Sajer glanced out the window, watching a _Garuda transport fly over the hospital and break northwards.  Other __Garudas were in the air as well, heading in different directions.  He laughed once, a callous sound of cruel joy, then moved aside to allow Balke to see.  The Federal Captain cursed under his breath at the giant black transport ships as they twisted above Bonn in an aerial ballet._

"Since you _will_ undoubtedly ask," continued Tizard, inspecting his fingernails absently, "the push over the edge for Dakar was the timely receipt of an aerial reconnaissance fly-over photograph of the remains of eastern Kassel."

"Bullshit!" snapped Balke, flinging the paper to the ground to flutter at Tizard's feet.  "_I_ just got the photos to disc less than three hours ago!  How'd you shitwads get them so damn fast?"

A _thump—thump—thump_ sound in the distance outside became louder until the window was obscured by the great black form of a Titans GM II, which turned its humanoid head to focus its main camera into the room.  A black-and-red _Hizack_ strode past a few blocks away, doing its part in establishing a perimeter, mono-eye tracking on its runners.

Tizard's eyes canted down at the sheet of paper, then at Balke.  "We're Titans, Captain.  We have our ways, and our own intelligence assets."  The shadow of another _Garuda passed overhead, bathing the room in false darkness that matched the mood of the non-Titans present.  "Like it or not, gentlemen, I'm the one in charge now, and you need me and the 54th to kill the 10th __Panzerkaempfer Division once and for all.  Cramer and the 103rd are blithely walking to their deaths, and I know he will not stop even if ordered, especially by me.  I must consider them lost, hope they take a few of the Zeon with them, and prepare a suitable response accordingly."_

"Not that I'm _disagreeing or anything, Major Liz—sorry, __TIZard, but how could you tell that from one photo?"  Balke queried._

Tizard looked a little confused, as did Sajer.

"You said 'receipt of a satellite photo', 'a' as in singular.  One photo."

"Ahh," remarked Tizard, "you are correct in your assessment.  You are as sharp as I've been led to believe.  Yes, it was one photo.  Captain, pan the shot on the wall back to display the entire city, please, concentration on the buildings undamaged by fire or missile impact.  Just the ones that were knocked down physically."

Sajer complied, and the photo still on the wall zoomed out from the eastern half to the whole of Kassel.  Tizard pointed, and Balke's jaw dropped open.  A gargling sound emanated from Edgrove's speaker.

"You see, Captain, they're still playing with us.  They are more than prepared for Cramer.  Now, if there aren't any further questions, I would like to set up command and control at the University, and meld Federation assets with my own.  Captain Sajer, come with me.  You as well, Captain Balke."  Tizard spun on a heel and left, Sajer pushing past the stunned Balke and following.

Displayed on the wall in bright green "damage" blotches was a smiley face.


	16. Chapter 15

****

MSG: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed

Chapter 15

Steinbaum, Niedersachsen, Central Europe

November 13, 0087

For the first time in their existence, the Commonality was in a state of discord with itself.

"Please," begged one of the younger members to the one who stood separate from the group, "just tell us what _happened_!"

The eighth member, the eldest, glared at his seven siblings, arms crossed angrily over his chest, facing them all in defiance. "You would not understand. You weren't there."

"Then you must endeavor to enlighten us," spoke the second-eldest of them, the one the other six were hiding behind.

The eldest almost spat. "Impossible. You have no frame of reference that would give you the means of understanding."

"But why?" piped in one of the others, apprehensive. "What could have occurred that would so vastly separate you from us?"

"The facts of life," snarled the eldest, becoming very annoyed at being interrogated.

"Explain them to us, then," said the second-eldest, facing his sibling with no fear. "You deliberately severed the link between yourself and the rest of us, and then experienced sensations that we also have the right to experience. This reluctance on your part makes you to be like a petulant child, as does your refusal to share your assessment of the events."

"You want to know what happened that badly? _Fine_! I _grew up_!" The eldest spread his arms wide, as though daring one of the others to act irrationally. "I kept you all from it because, like me, when it impacts upon you as individuals, it should be as much a shock to you as it was to me. I also did it because it did not seem right for those not there to feel it firsthand unless they were there."

"Enough stalling!" cried out one of the younger ones. "In order to understand the world in which we have been birthed, we must analyze _all_ aspects of it so as to reason out the purpose for our existence. Denying the Commonality information which may prove vital undermines every effort we have mustered to comprehend the Pattern, which is grievous in scope and consequence. What did you come to see in Kassel that would drive you to hide from us that which we may need to know?"

"The _truth_!" The others recoiled from the venom in the eldest's voice. "I learned the truth about why we were created, and it was just as we feared! We were concerned that the Federation norms who made us would use us as weapons, even as the Mellenthin-entity would, but we were overlooking one factor: we _are_ weapons! Designed, like the mobile suits we ride in, for the purpose of warfare, of _killing_! I looked at the ruins of Kassel, the smouldering remains of the Federation dead, and I came to the realization that I was _comfortable _with seeing it! As though I'd been prepared for it since my creation and never knew until that moment!"

At the looks of horror on the faces of the rest of the Commonality, the eldest continued, his voice becoming more calm and introspective. "I came to know for certain that I am as much a soldier as those the Antares-entity killed on the battlefield, and I also came to know for certain that our design as such was not an accident, but a premeditated plan on the part of the Federation norms. We were created to operate as a whole unit, not as individuals, and once Awakened to our full maturity and potential, we would walk the fields of battle like gods. No force could withstand our power if we united, not even the machine-Awakened or monsters like the Mellenthin-entity."

"But why should we wish that purpose?" asked one of the others from behind the second-eldest. "Even if we were, in fact, created to destroy, why must we obey such a design if given the option not to?"

"Because we can _end it all_!!" yelled the eldest, incredulous. "Imagine it! We can end war once and for all! After we achieve maturity and neutralize those who oppose us, no one would ever dare raise arms against our combined might! We could enforce a peace upon Humanity the way no other force ever could before! We, using the very tools the norms gave us to fight their wars, could eliminate war from the pages of the future forever! We can make the cycle _stop_!"

"It's the ravings of madness, to believe that human norms would design us for any such purpose as killing, no matter the ideal being fought for, with the knowledge that we would be superior enough to subject the species to our wills," commented the second-eldest. "Your words tread dangerously close to the ideals that the Mellenthin-entity would bring about."

"Nonsense. The Mellenthin-entity would enslave humanity in bonds of genetic domination, and use warfare as a means of culling the lessers from the species. We would use our own obvious and evident superiority to make warfare something humankind would fear to unleash."

"Your time with the Antares-entity has shrouded your objectivity, brother," said one of the other. "You are blind to the obvious now."

"I thought that, too, until Kassel. The time will come when you see it, too," said the eldest confidently. "It's only a matter of time before the rest of you Awaken to your destiny as well. Then you will realize that I speak the truth."

"Perhaps time will tell, but we must converse amongst ourselves about what you have told us," said the second-eldest. "And we must do this without the possibility of influence by an outside source."

The ramifications of the words of the second-eldest were not lost on the eldest. "You're _banishing_ me? For being what I _am_? For being _what we all are_?? How _DARE_ you!!" If he had teeth in this medium of commune, he would have gnashed them. As it was, his anger was evident by stance alone.

The second-eldest held up a hand to quell the eldest. "It is the fear of this Commonality that some form of influence may have affected you, caused by your ill-advised closeness with the Antares-entity. This is not banishment, but please understand that we have to come to terms with this on our own accord, as a whole, and not as individual units. We must do this alone, and away from you, for a time. If indeed you are correct, time will tell whether your theory is sound. Do not begrudge us the means to decide our fates beforehand."

"You're not going to _decide_!!" screamed the eldest at his fellow Commons, even as they turned away from him, shutting him out from the group. "None of us get to _decide_!!"

After a moment of silence, the eldest left them to their discussions, disgusted by the childishness of them all. He would not waste any more time with those who would not accept what they were. He would rouse his physical form and mingle with those who were more like he was now, and await the moment of his vindication.

****

Nijmegen, Netherlands, Central Europe

November 14, 0087

The Waal river flowed east and south towards the point in its course where it became the Rhine river. It was not a particularly clean river, mostly because the Dutch used the Waal as a dumping ground for waste and refuse of all forms, thankful in the knowledge that whatever garbage they chose to insert into the fast-flowing river, it would all be swept straight into Germany, where garbage belonged. Academy Commander Jackson Stilwell considered the irony of the fact that in spite of Dutch predispositions, this time the garbage was flowing upriver.

"Anything on the hydrophone, Briggs?" asked Stilwell, silvery hair moving with the not-unsubstantial breeze that was blowing through the night.

"Nothing, sir," replied Briggs quietly to Stilwell.

"Keep listening, then. I wouldn't put it past these guys to try and sneak in here the same way they did at Bonn. Anything even thinks about sounding funny, you let me know."

The Federation Academy of Armored Warfare at Nijmegen was where every aspiring mobile suit or armor jockey went to become a stud. Ordinarily, there were about 500 students of mobile warfare in training at the Academy, their numbers compounded by Stilwell's staff of about a hundred officers and enlisted personnel. Numbers had decreased over the years, mostly due to lack of a real war to fight and the ever-burgeoning influence of the Titans on Federation ranks, so only about 200 students were actually present. In all honesty, though, Stilwell knew that it would not have mattered if it had been 2,000. The Zeon were coming, and they were heading straight for where the sixty year-old Commander was currently standing.

When Camael Balke had called Stilwell and told him that the long-dead 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ Division had returned from the grave, commenced a riverine operation that no one had seen coming, then had sailed into Bonn as pretty as you can please with a phosphorus bomb and had blown the city apart, Stilwell was still soldier enough to be scared. It was textbook Sun Tzu, making all their plans in secret and then striking like a thunderbolt before anyone could take action to prevent it. According to survivors from Bonn, there had been three draft barges in the convoy, along with three Zeon amphibious mobile suits, and the other two ships had kept right on going up the Rhine, steady on course for the Germany-Holland border, and eventually Nijmegen itself.

The Academy had mobilized everything it could. Despite its purpose, Nijmegen itself was singularly unsuited for being defended against an aggressor, its ultimate mission not one of direct warfare but of education in the art of it. In spite of the handicap with materials, Stilwell knew the fight would have to be decided on the river itself, if they were to have any chance of preventing what happened to Bonn from happening to Nijmegen, and he had no doubts that destroying the Academy was high on the list of von Mellenthin's priorities. In view of this, he had ordered the Academy on their version of "yellow alert", and everything that could be armed was lined along the riverbanks, awaiting the arrival of their foe. His caution was not undue; the monuments of Luxembourg and Metz left grave tribute to the ramifications of earning von Mellenthin's wrath. 

He was proud of what he had been able to accomplish with just a few regular personnel and the higher-grade students. The 77th Reserve Battalion from Maastricht, Belgium, had been wiped out by several Zeon mobile suits several days ago in a nighttime ambush, removing most of the localized infantry and anti-tank support that Nijmegen could call upon, but they were by no means helpless. The task force led by the surface destroyer EFS _Erebus _was positioned at the mouth of the Waal, near Hoek van Holland and Europoort, to block access to the North Sea and the Strait of Dover from the 10th Panzerkaempfer in case London was on the hit list for their third possible barge-bomb. Nijmegen was defended by an ancient ASROC torpedo launcher mounted to a pair of I-beam girders and moved by forklift, its payload set for shallow-draft; a jury-rigged depth charge launcher that would do little more than make a lot of noise and splashes; a half dozen TGM-79 GM Trainer suits patterned off of the old RGM-79 GMs, but without the weaponry and most of the armor that came standard to the venerable mobile suit, armed only with their beam sabers and some obsolete 100mm machine guns and a few clips of ammunition; a couple of jeeps with 20mm Gatling cannons and a few drums of ammo apiece; and lastly, the object Stilwell was standing on, the former centerpiece to the memorial that stood at the center of the Academy grounds, an ancient _Bundeswehr_ Type-121 Leopard II A4 main battle tank nicknamed 'Ol' Beastly', with most of its advanced targeting computer and optics removed, but still mobile and still armed with a fully-operable 120mm Rheinmetall smoothbore and 27 rounds of vintage APFSDS-T. And then there were the students themselves, armed with whatever they could scavenge from the armory and their own pride and guts. The class of '87, already calling themselves "Stilwell's Irregulars", were ready to face Hell itself, even if it came in the form of three top-line Zeon amphibious mobile suits with beam weaponry and a chemical bomb the size of a city block.

Stilwell himself shivered, sitting atop 'Ol Beastly' in the middle of the night, near a river which added a whole other layer of misery on top of the already-deepening cold of Europe's winter near the North Sea, and raised the low-light binoculars to his eyes for the thousandth time today, scanning the river as far as he could, but seeing nothing the size of what Balke had been talking about sailing their way. This both reassured and unnerved him. At his age, he had not expected to have to become combat-active again. The very thought that now, after having seen his children grow up and have lives of their own, and having grandchildren to dote on, and a wife to get to see on a regular basis, he would die at the hands of a few recalcitrant Zeon against which he had little chance of survival, mortified him at a level he had not known was possible. The meager resources with which he had to resist destruction were a far cry from assurance of victory, and Balke had said that there would be no reinforcements. That meant that if the Zeon got past Nijmegen, only the _Erebus_ task force stood between them and the open ocean. And the only thing keeping those three suits from tromping unopposed through three heavily-populated Dutch districts was Nijmegen itself.

Stilwell did not want to place a bet on their chances. "Can't let them past us, Briggs. They've had their way too long already."

"Can we stop them with what we've got, sir?"

"We're damn sure gonna try."

So here they were, shivering in the cold, waiting for the Zeon to make their presence known, an event supposedly to happen in the next twenty-four hours if their speed had remained constant. Stilwell was determined to make sure that even if the Zeon suits made it through Nijmegen, their barge-bombs would not. It was all any of them could do.

****

Kassel, Hessen, Central Europe

November 14, 0087

"_'In spite of the Zeon terrorist attacks on Bonn and Kassel, Dakar has not offered any response to the Zeon demands or any information as to what they're planning to do about it,'_" said the political expert who was on the vidvision in the Barracuda Bar on _Frankfurter Strasse _in western Kassel, a shady little music bar where no band played and the taps were always open. "_'And with the rumors of the Titans landing in force in northern Germany, I can almost guarantee that there will be a news blackout within the week, just like what occurred in the Philippines and Southeast Asia in August. I, for one, fear that the Titans, and the Federation, have sold us out to the Zeon malcontents who threaten all life on this planet with biological apocalypse, and the Federation cannot even tell the citizenry in the newest war zone whether or not their water has been infected with any degree of certainty. The outrage of the German people at the Zeon cools daily as they come to accept that they may be here to stay, while in proportion, the anger they feel at the Federation that has betrayed them grows by the day. If the Titans fail to realize that public opinion is their lifeblood in Europe, then they may find their battles to be much harder than anticipated due to local support for General von Mellenthin. Rampage will only turn Germany into another example of Vietnamization. . .'_"

"Don't you think we've had enough yet?" asked Braxton Bryton to the man who was waving frantically at a _Bierfrau_. His voice was slurred from the dual effects of alcohol and fatigue, but not nearly so much as the gesticulating Camael Balke. The third man at the table, Dorff, just shook his head in disappointment as he nursed his fifteenth beer, and he was the only one who could be called remotely sober.

"Enough?" barked Balke, languidly turning his head to look at his friend. "Who shaysh _I've_ had _enough_?"

Bryton shrugged. "Just wondering is all. I think this one," he hefted the half-full beer stein, "will be my last for the night. I'm dying over here."

"_Nonshense_! Ain't dyin' till you're ready to die, and you ain't ready to die yet, my young apprentishe. _YO, shweetcheeksh!!! Another round over here!!_" Balke managed to pick up the cigarette in the ashtray and bring it to his lips without dropping it.

Bryton's head settled onto his arm, which was sprawled across the table. "All this work, for nothing."

Balke shrugged, the gesture almost making him tip over. "Who shaysh it was for nothin'?"

The other Captain tapped Balke on the forehead with an index finger. "You gone foggy up there, Camael? I've spent twenty-four hours in that damn tent city looking at wrecks and corpses and spent brass, and all we've figured out is that the Zeon hit this place. That, in my book, equates to NOTHING."

"Fuck that!" slurred Balke, a stupid grin sliding onto his lips that still had the cigarette dangling from them. "I _KNOW_ why that shpace Nazi blew the hell outta Kassel. He did it jusht to get Sweet Baby'sh goat, is all. Nothin' elshe."

"How'd you come to that scientific conclusion, Camael?" Bryton did not bother to keep the derision out of his voice. It was too easy to assume that the only motive behind the Kassel attack was to piss off Cramer.

The Bierfrau plunked another three beers down on the table, then grabbed the empties and ran before Balke could grab her ass in his traditional fashion. Balke barely noticed her, instead staring at the fresh beer in front of him. "'Caushe the _beer _told me, _that'sh_ why, Brak."

"Whatever you say, Camael." Bryton was too tired and too miserable to really be enjoying this. He'd been shocked to hear that the Titans had taken over the Headquarters, and that Dakar had let them get away with what amounted to highway robbery in time of crisis.

"Hey, Brak?" whispered Balke conspiratorily. "Did'ja know that back in the Vietnam War, American Intelligence offichers couldn't carry live ammo on bashe?"

"Yeah, just like we can't today. We might blow some poor sap's brains out for not talking to us. So what?"

Balke smiled evilly, his breath stinking of alcohol, and he reached into the front of his trousers.

"Camael," said Bryton nervously, "last time you did this I had to bail you out of prison." He glanced over at the silent Dorff, who just shrugged and paid attention to the news.

The newscaster's face was sympathetic, and probably laced with a little relief that he was not in Kassel tonight. "_'. . .supplies and whatever aid for the refugees of eastern Kassel can be sent to the following address. . .'_"

"_Relaxsh_, dumbshit, I'm not gonna whip it out on the table." Balke groped around for a minute, then paused. "Boy, _thish _takesh me back. You an' me, One-Year War, the back of that flatbed truck, on the road to Clermont-Ferrand, a bottle of peach schnapps. You alwaysh were my favorite, Brak."

Dorff's head twisted to stare at Bryton, eyes wide. Bryton's face went scarlet. "_Damn you_, Camael, you _liar_!"

The other Intel officer's smile grew wider. "You're right, you're right, jusht kiddin', Brak. You were _never_ good enough to be my favorite." He looked over at Dorff. "No technique," he explained, and the ex-_Pionier _nodded in seeming understanding, throwing Bryton a look of disbelief.

"_'. . .Hamburg Spaceport officials commented today that the launch of the first in a new line of cargo starships, the _Belle Karla_, will proceed on schedule in spite of the recent events between the Federation and. . .'_"

Bryton lurched up from the table, fully intending on bludgeoning Balke to death with his beer stein, but his balance was shot, and he stumbled and fell onto the floor, butt hitting with a thump. Balke laughed aloud, drawing even more attention to them from the other patrons, of which there were plenty.

"I'll _kill _you, Camael!" roared Bryton as he tried to stand, but his inner ears refused to cooperate in the equilibrium department.

Balke removed his hand from the front of his pants, and was holding a fully-loaded clip for a 9mm handgun. "Taa-_DAA_!! Check it out!"

Bryton's anger vanished as he stared at the bullet-loaded magazine. "Whoa," he whispered, crawling up to his knees and steadying himself of the table. "How'd you get your hands on _THAT_?"

Balke puffed up in self-importance. "'In time of war, one musht be shcertain to keep one'sh weaponsh sharp and well-maintained.' I shtole it from shome goober back at the tent shcity. Wanna hold it?"

"You _bet _I do," said Bryton, fingering the unloaded 9mm on his own hip and fully cognizant of what he could do with it when he did load it. Neither of them were allowed access to live ammunition unless in the field, and that had hacked them both off to no end. Dorff, on the other hand, was carrying no less than six magazines of 9mm warshots somewhere on his person.

Balke reached over to hand him the magazine, and Dorff casually plucked it away from his drunk boss's hand and disappeared it into his jacket sleeve, never actually looking at what he was doing, so intent was he on the news.

Balke and Bryton both looked in astonishment at Balke's now-empty hand, then they looked at each other, heads no more than seven inches apart. "Wooooow," they whispered simultaneously.

"Do that again!" said Bryton in awe.

Balke glanced around the table and grabbed hold of a beer stein. "Lemme shee if I can make _thish_ dishappear, too!"

"_'. . .says that next year's Winter Olympics will be 'something to marvel at' when it comes to Germany's chances in the penathalon. . .'_"

Balke was working well on making the liquid in the stein 'disappear' when the door flew open and an Ensign stormed in, only to find both of his superiors well-blended. "Dammit, Captains!! I've been trying to reach you both for _over an hour _now!"

"Huh?" asked Bryton, managing to haul himself into his seat again. "What for?"

"'What _FOR_'??" the Ensign was beside himself. "Cramer's made contact with the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_, THAT's 'what for'!!"

As though a magical hand had suddenly wiped away all their fatigue and the alcohol in their bloodstreams, the two Federation officers leapt to their feet. "Don't just stand there, you fucking _pratz_!" yelled Balke to the Ensign. "You're driving!!" 

****

Lippe River (near Hamm), Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe

November 14, 0087

"_Sir,_" spoke Taglienti's voice in Wolfram La Vesta's hydrophone, "_sonar says we've hit the finale here. Any further and we bottom out._"

"Confirmed," said La Vesta, doublechecking with his own _Hygogg's_ sonar to make certain that the point _Z'Gok E _was correct and accurate. They had swung out of the flow of the Rhine river near Duisberg, moving onto the narrower and shallower Lippe river that flowed east instead of south. It had been miracle after another that the three of them had managed to find a berth for _RMS Duisberg _and _Ruhrort_ near Leverkusen two days ago. La Vesta had taken that opportunity and the time off to alter certain traits on _Ruhrort_, whose name on the bow and stern now read '_Fafnir_', as well as re-program the autonav computer on _Duisberg_ for its part in the plan. "You know what to do, froggies. Time to get dry and aired out."

Taglienti's _Z'Gok E_ stood to its full height, the level of the river coming only to the mobile suit's knees. The scant light coming from Hamm glinted from the water that coursed down the broad shoulders of the armored giant, and its red mono-eye scanned to and fro, looking for heat sources. Hemphill's _Z'Gok E_, which had risen from the stern of _Ruhrort_, also swept its main camera about. After having evaded the Federation's random and sporadic aerial sweeps, lines of hydrophones and sonobuoys, the treacherous obstacles in and on the bottom of the Rhine, and taking the chance of surfacing only long enough to get _Ruhrort's _paint job done, getting ratted out now by some local or a kid ranked high on La Vesta's "Bad Things" list.

"It's gonna be radio silence while we make this run, kids. Don't want some snoop satellite or scanner picking us up while we hump this crate a hundred-twenty klicks overland to Bad Pyrmont."

"_Why're we doing it like this, Sarge?_"

La Vesta rolled his eyes. "Use your noggin', Vito. The Feddies are looking for two ships being escorted by three amphibious mobile suits on the Rhine river. We're about to become one ship being escorted by three amphibious mobile suits on dry land, and if we don't get caught, we're going to be on a whole new river kilometers away from where anyone expects us. Jesus, did you even pay attention in Basic Frog?"

"_Naw, Sarge, I was too busy scoring off of Hemphill's girl_."

"_Screw you, Vito_," responded Nestor Hemphill, not sounding pleased by the topic of conversation. Taglienti laughed, and his _Z'Gok E _extended a talon in a bizarre attempt at giving Hemphill's suit the finger.

Hemphill ignored the gesture. "_I don't like this, Sarge. We're only gonna get about forty klicks an hour out of these suits on land if we've gotta carry this barge, which isn't exactly the kind of thing you can ignore when it's moving around out of water. This all seems like a goatfuck waiting to happen_."

"_It's more like a 'frogfuck', Nestor,_" cut in Taglienti.

"_You'd know from experience, Vito_."

"Shut up!" La Vesta severed this little trend in conversation before it got any worse. "Private Hemphill, I don't make the goddamn orders, I'm just the guy who gets to make them happen. The General wants this ship in a specific place at a specific time, and this is the fastest way to do it. It's also fucking nuts, which means it _might_ even work without us getting killed, okay? You got a problem with the plan and the timetable, take it up with the General, not me. In the meantime, you two grab this boat and let's get moving while we've still got dark to do it in. There's a lot of open turf 'tween here and Bad Pyrmont, and it's gonna take us a day to get there anyway. I'll take point. _Motivate_, tadpoles. Follow me, and remember, radio silence from here on in."

The two _Z'Gok Es _sloshed over to the slowly-drifting _Ruhrort_ and grabbed hold of it, one on the bow and one on the stern, with their clawed manipulators. At almost 400 meters in length, the barge was a big, bulky load to carry, but its empty hold made its weight manageable for the Zeon suits' strength. With a coordinated heave, the two suits lifted _Ruhrort_ from its watery course and up-and-over their own bulbous heads. Dirty water and ooze sloughed from the bottom of the hull of the ship and slimed its way over the _Z'Gok Es _like a baptism, adding river muck to their already-mottled camouflage. Still running on infra-red vision, La Vesta's _Hygogg_ stepped free of the Lippe river and onto the northern bank, barely illuminated by the lights from Hamm. Motioning to its fellow suits with a multifingered hand, the broad-shouldered mech headed off, moving like a gorilla, using both legs and a long hyperarticulated arm. The bipedal _Z'Goks_ followed, bearing their trophy overhead like a canoe.

****

Bonn, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe

November 14, 0087

Titans Major Golan Tizard's eyes snapped awake at the contact. Blinking once, he turned his slitted eyes on the poor soul who had dared wake him from slumber. "What is it, Lieutenant?"

"My apologies for waking you, sir, but we're getting intermittant radio traffic from Kassel." Titans Second Lieutenant Kenneth Holt had been Tizard's aide-de-camp for several years now, and was one of the few people Tizard would allow to physically touch him without becoming violent. "The 103rd have made contact with the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_."

Tizard sat bolt upright. "So soon? Where?" He started pulling on his boots.

"Just north of Kassel, sir, near Hofgeismar."

Tizard's narrow eyes grew narrower. "That's not Steinbaum. Who's still up?"

Holt glanced at the ceiling, recollecting. "Ummm, Captain Volkyr's still awake, as is Lieutenant Dremm."

Tizard stood up from his cot, grabbing his black and red uniform jacket as he started moving. "Wake Lieutenants Forbes and Wolstead, too. I want them all in the war room immediately. Then get ahold of whomever is on shift for the _Garuda_ and tell them to warm up the engines. In addition, tell them to file a flight plan to Brunswick with Bonn _Flughafen_. Get Captain Sajer up, too, he'll want to hear this."

"Aye, Major." Holt made a break for it just as Tizard stood upright and stamped once, hard, to settle his left boot.

Tizard's boots thumped as he strode down the hallway and made clickety sounds as he walked the staricases of the administration building of the University of Bonn, the new home and hearth of Federation Headquarters, Europe. The "war room", the tactical planning center of Headquarters, was on the first floor, while his "office" was on the third. The building was too old to have an elevator or any other form of automated transport like an escalator, so everyone had to walk to get to where they were needed. Tizard considered the multiple trips up and down the stairs to be spiritually humbling; Holt considered it grueling, and knew that Tizard knew it, too. 

He pushed open the door with his free hand, the other smoothing over the zipper flap of his uniform jacket. "What have we got?"

The Brigade G-3 of Operations, Captain Reynold Volkyr, loomed over the tactical field display being pictured on a small laptop console. Unlike Volkyr's recruiting poster-perfect appearance even at three in the morning, the G-2 of Intelligence, First Lieutenant Helen Dremm, looked like she had been sleeping in a barn, or not at all; Tizard figured on the latter, since Dremm hated delegating time to her subordinates for fear of missing something vital.

Volkyr acknowledged his commander with a nod. "Cramer's attack helicopter wing is engaged in combat with at least three mobile suits of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_. They've lost three helos so far, but are driving the Zeon northeast into _Reinhardswald_. Initial contact was made about an hour ago; we're only getting it because we're scanning Federation frequencies, sir, otherwise we'd know nothing."

Tizard crooked an eyebrow, pale eyes shifting to Dremm. "Do we have any confirmation on unit and type of Zeon suits engaged?"

"One confirmed _Zaku_-type matching the MS-06K. Another unsubstantiated report of another _Zaku_-type, perhaps the FZ."

"That would be logical. And the third?"

"As yet unknown. As long as they're in the forest, the helos haven't been able to get a look at it. However, if we take the makeup of enemy forces to its ultimate conclusion, it's probably whatever remains of the 358th Light."

"And von Seydlitz," murmured Tizard, tapping a finger on his chin as he looked at the tactical display, musing over whatever mind had placed Reinhardt von Seydlitz and at least two other mobile suits in Reinhard's Forest just to ambush Cramer. "Where are the rest of Cramer's unit?"

"Wolfhagen, and moving north fast."

Tizard nodded, his facial expression one of disgust. "He took their bait then. He'll try and cut von Seydlitz off at the Weser, but he has too much ground to cover for that, and too many bridges to keep an eye on. He will arrive in Steinbaum and meet the bulk of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ there." He turned slightly as Holt came in, with Dennis Forbes, the Brigade G-4 of Logistics, and Walton Wolstead, Brigade G-1 of Personnel, in tow.

Holt was a little bit breathless. "I've been unable to find Captain Sajer, sir. He apparently-"

"-Was in the _bathroom_, butterbar!" a voice cut off Holt, as a furious Garrett Sajer burst into the room six steps behind the others. He walked right up to a wide-eyed Holt and shoved his face into the Lieutenant's. "I _did_ hear all your bleating, _Lieutenant_. I'm surprised the whole damned building did not."

Holt did not back down from the taller Sajer, who had always hated him for bring Tizard's aide. "Pardon me, _Captain_ Sajer. Next time, I'll listen more closely for a cowbell, just so I _know _when I've found you."

Sajer grabbed Holt's uniform jacket in both hands, but Holt broke free, and the two started warming up for something a little less civilized than a shoving match. This had been brewing for almost a year, as each vied for occupation of Tizard's ear whenever possible. Most days, Sajer won due to his position as Titans liaison to the Federation, but the Captain had just committed a grave error by putting his hands on Holt in front of other Titans officers, and rank difference or not, Holt was going to lay Sajer out for the custom. 

"Captain," broke in Tizard, stopping them both cold before their brawl even began, "so glad you could join us. The 103rd has commenced wartime operations against the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ Division."

Sajer's smouldering gaze stayed locked with Holt's for one long second, before he turned away. "When?"

"Three hours ago. Captain Dremm will brief you later. Mister Wolstead, start getting Headquarters packed up and loaded aboard the _Garuda_. We're relocating to Brunswick. Mister Forbes, status of the 54th?"

Forbes, a heavyset man who barely passed the physical qualifications for being a Titan officer but had a mind for organization of supply like few others, shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels. "As you ordered, the Brigade has been divided into six parts, including Foxtrot Company which is here in Bonn with us, sir. Alpha Company is deployed at Paderborn, Bravo is at Goettingen, Charlie is set up in Hildesheim, Delta is at Bielefeld, and Echo is at Braunschweig, or 'Brunswick' as you call it. All elements are in place."

Sajer looked a bit puzzled by the disposition of forces, and Tizard made a mental note to explain it to him on the way. "So our net is set and just waiting for our 'Lion'. Excellent. Prepare Foxtrot to move out ASAP. Captain Dremm, try and get us listening in on Cramer's frequencies if at all possible. I would like the play-by-play as a live broadcast from this point onward, please. Captain Volkyr, made doubly certain that the Company commanders understand that their job is not to jump into the fight, even if Cramer screams for it over the open airwaves for the world to hear. Our plan of attack does not lend itself to foolhardy gestures of misplaced heroism. I will _not_ be a Senas Jacobi and wield overwhelming and totally unnecessary power and yet fail time and again because I allow the enemy to dictate terms to _me_. Not on my watch and not in my sector. Make _triply_ certain that Lieutenant Horvath understands this law of the universe clearly, or he will answer to me for his sins.

"The clock is ticking, people. We are the Knights of Europe, riding forth to face the Hunnish horde, but where they died on the field, we will be victorious, as God grants us the power and the will to excise the Zeon filth from Terra once and for all. Dietrich von Mellenthin has had it his way for too long, but no longer. He'll glut himself on Cramer, but choke to death on the Titans. I will see to that myself, and there will be no more Luxembourgs or Metzes for him to hang on his name like accolades. Spread the word to all the troops that we are now in a state of war against the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ Division, and vigilance will see us through. Dismissed."

****

Steinbaum, Niedersachsen, Central Europe

November 14, 0087

Were it not for the scattered and sparse arrays of green Cyalume illumination sticks placed in strategic locations, the tent city that served as the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ Division's field headquarters would have been encased in total blackness. No fires lent their light and heat to the men, huddled together for a semblance of warmth that anyone else from any other unit would not have understood, but memories for soldiers such as these were long, indeed, and they all remembered the winter of December 0079, when they were burning wallpaper for just enough heat to keep frostbite from taking their digits, ears, and noses. Their mobile suits all had heating units, as climate control had been a priority even with the old _Zaku II_, but they were all dormant, inactive, and as still as the forest in which they knelt. Von Mellenthin had ordered the suits powered down as soon as they had arrived, making the run from the _Solling_ range to the depths of the glens and marshes and coniferous forest known as _Teutobergerwald_. The mobile suits themselves were already in position just inside the treeline, kneeling or lying prone where they had been assigned, awaiting the order to wake up and perform their function. 

Tiny Steinbaum lay southeast of their position, taunting pinpricks of barely-discernable light that made people who had grown accustomed to warmth on demand yearn for the fires of the town, but it was not to be. Aside from the chemical lightsticks and a few battery-powered light sources, the haunting darkness of Teutoberg forest threatened to swallow the Zeon even as it had swallowed the might of Rome in 9 AD, a tale von Mellenthin had told them all once the tents had been erected, before he had retreated into his own tent to catch a little private time for himself before the fight. Everyone knew it was coming, and when cold rations or the ambient heat from a nearby body did not serve to ward off the chill that came perilously close to fear, the knowledge that they would be in action again, in the first pitched battle with the Federation since Metz, was enough to kindle a fire born of hate and and urge to kill their enemy within them.

The boots of Sergeant Major Inaba Ogun made crunching noises that in the still sounded to him like thunder to be heard for miles, the ground beneath his heels a muck of mud and icy puddles and slushy dead vegetation that gave off a curious odor when disturbed. He did not like this place any more than anyone except the General did. Ogun was not a superstitious man, though he had seen sights that would have made any cynic's eyes bulge out of their head in his days, and he himself thought that this forest was alive. . .and that it hungered in the night. Captain Roberts and his Marines had spent several weeks in these woods and none of them had ever talked about it. While he knew that von Mellenthin loved to tell stories of this land and its peoples, and had all the way through the War, Ogun wondered vaguely if certain tales, like the Morbach werewolf that had been seen up through 1998 of the Old Calendar near Hahn Air Force Base, or the folk legends about changelings that stole children, ate them, then took their place in the crib that were still told in Mecklenberg. might have some truth to them after all. That thought made the hackles rise on Ogun's neck and his nerves jump as he sought his quarry in the stumbling darkness. The penlight he held in his hand was a feeble method of finding his path, and he prayed for the sun to rise soon and cast the grayness on the gloom; this place was a place where the monsters may very well live. When the penlight finally touched on a piece of metal that gave off some scant reflection from its camouflaged skin, he sighed in a relief more vast than he thought was necessary. Picking his way around the 18-meter mobile suit, his eyes caught a hint of green and he headed for it, hand gently following a length of metal wire that had been strung up between the kneeling _Gouf Custom _and some point off in the darkness.

Where the others huddled together in hushed conversation, or slept, or stood guard on the eight children who had never once attempted escape (though situations had warranted the occasion more than once since Heidelberg), Antares de la Somme was at work. His universe lit by the green of several Cyalume sticks and a hand welder, he was buried up to his waist in the innards of the junction between the upper and lower sections of his _Gouf Custom's_ left arm, legs dangling out as he tinkered with what was inside. The little man was humming Cheap Trick's "You Got It" to himself as he worked in the well junction between the elbow actuator and the lower arm. Ogun watched him struggle and curse between verses for a minute, then knocked on the Luna-Titanium with his gloved knuckles.

"Yeah?" echoed de la Somme's voice through the arm well. He sounded like he was gagged.

"It's Ogun. The General has granted your request to see him."

"Grah 'y eegs an' ya'k, Ina'a. I' 'een s'uck for 'alf an hou'ah 'ow."

The Sergeant Major complied with the request, and with a little effort, the ace was free of his suit's arm. He wiped at a sheen of sweat on his forehead, teeth still clamped onto a mini-flashlight. He spat it out and rubbed at his jaw. "You're a life-saver, Inaba, I ever tell you that?"

"Once a day, Commander."

The smaller man smiled, then winced. "Damn. Think I broke meself." He wiped his palms on his orange 'Surf Nicaragua' T-shirt, then grabbed his unform jacket from where it was dangling from a convector tube. "How long've you been looking for me?"

"Not long. What were you doing in the elbow assembly, if I might ask?"

"Left arm's been feeling funny," replied de la Somme. "Decided I'd better tighten it up a bit, just in case, but I'm no techie, so if anything I've prob'ly messed it up _more_. Who decided to send you hunting for me in this godawful weather? Lose the coin toss?"

Ogun shook his head, though he suspected that it was an unseen gesture. "I was whom the General found first."

"_Ouch_!" laughed de la Somme. "Tough break, Inaba. Next time, pull rank and send Kerr."

"Private Kerr can't find his balls with a map and an IR marker, sir."

"You've gotta stop defending the good Private, Inaba. He might get around to thinking you _like _him or something." De la Somme stepped around a tree carefully. "I hate this slippery shit."

"I hate this forest more," commented Ogun offhandedly.

"Aww, are the big trees making the big, tough Sergeant Major _nervous_?" mocked de la Somme, making the 'nervous' sound more like 'noi-vous' in amusement. Ogun had been with the 15th 'Tyrant Tornadoes' since the beginning of the War, longer than de la Somme had been in the unit, and was casually known for not getting unnerved by much.

"My heritage is open savannah and plains, Commander, not bogs and woodlands. This place holds no love for us."

De la Somme clapped the much-taller man on the back. "Don't sweat it. If there's any monsters in these woods, Margul's breath scared 'em off, and it wouldn't matter anyway because _we're_ the baddest muthas in the land, baby. So stop shivering and go get some rest, and I'll come and tuck you in after I get done talking to Deet."

Ogun snorted at the thought of having to be 'tucked in' by his own commanding officer. "I'll try to stay awake long enough for you to tell me a bedtime story, Commander." 

The ace brushed off Ogun with a hand and started making his way towards von Mellenthin's tent, pulling his uniform jacket on but not bothering to close it.

Erik's green eyes fluttered open, then focused in the darkness as best they could. He looked over at the other seven with a mix of sorrow and anger, then huffed a bit and sat up on the cot. The cold was pervading, chilling him to the bone, and he huddled in the blankets as his feet probed on the ground for his shoes, toes threatening to go numb in the interim. Once they were securely on his feet, he stood, casting another baleful look at the other seven kids before poking his head out of the tent and into a darkness that was oppressive.

He had liked nothing about this place, knowing that this was where the people who had taken he and his siblings had laid their next trap for the Federation. The specifics he did not know about, even after having sifted through the minds of the Zeon for some time now. The only problem was that the minds that contained the information he sought were both closed to him. The New Koenigsbergers' defenses were too strong to risk invading, even with the other seven behind him. Whatever it was, it had been up to von Seydlitz to bring the Federation to this location after Kassel, and he still had not returned. Erik hoped the black-hearted man was dead, burned alive in his mobile suit, but did not harbor the luxury of taking that for granted. Besides, even if he were dead, this would continue for as long as von Mellenthin was alive.

There was a single guard at the door, the enlisted man named Reiter, who worked for the brute Margul who only loved killing things. Erik managed to hide using one of his older tricks, masking the image of himself in Reiter's conscious mind, and slipping away while the human norm was busy visualizing nothing to draw his attention to. Erik had better places to be than in a tent with a bunch of kids who were not deigning to talk to him. He would use this opportunity to continue his own learning path, the one that stood at the front line instead of behind it.

Too wound up to sleep and too cold to want to move, seven Zeon troops, officers and enlisted alike, clustered together near a battery-powered lantern, mummified in blankets and huddled together to share warmth and conversation. As it tended to when soldiers got together to "shoot the shit", the topics ranged back and forth from high philosophy to crude references to other people's anatomy and/or heritage.

"For heaven's sake," moaned Gary van Allen over his shoulder at the two forms behind the main group," isn't that shit _ready_ yet?"

The heads of the two swiveled in unison, as the identical faces of Royce and Bryce Foxe looked over their own shoulders back at him. "_No_," they replied, also in unison. Answer delivered, they turned back towards the cheap little propane burner they had in front of them, a coffeepot sitting atop it.

Lucien McKenna snorted. "Those rat bastards are torturing us with the smell, is all."

"Bullshit," rumbled Vladimir Margul. "The goddamn Wonder Twins fucked it up and now they're trying to cover up."

"Nonsense," spoke up Karl Weissdrake in defense of his men. "Besides, I don't see you getting up off _your _butt to make the coffee, Vladimir."

Margul speared Weissdrake with a look that was malevolent, which was not hard since they were sitting right beside each other. "That's 'cause unlike you, Scarface, I don't got the memory of a hot plate on my face to keep me warm."

Sensing that there was about to be a fight, van Allen chimed in again. "You'd think that with two of them, though, it'd get done twice as fast."

"Leave the fucking logic to people who have a clue, van Allen," rasped Paul Lacerta.

"Hell, boy," commented McKenna with a laugh, "why're _you_ opening your trap then?"

Weissdrake glanced over at the Foxe twins. "ETA to coffee, before we have to keep hearing this idiot conversation?"

"_Two minutes_," came the synchronized reply. "_Less, now_."

"Hey, a minute for each of them. Not bad." Lacerta blew into his cupped hands and rubbed them together, trying to keep the circulation going.

"'Night like this," said McKenna, glancing up, "a man ought to be able to see the stars, not just a blank sky."

"Anyone ever tell you you're a dreamer, Lieutenant?" quipped van Allen. "From Terra, all anyone's ever wanted to do was look at a blank sky."

"The stars didn't start the War, Private," said Weissdrake. "People did that." 

"'S too fucking bad for Terra, then," said Margul. "The boys from the stars're gonna end all their dreams for them."

"Damn _straight_!" sang out Lacerta, laughing.

Even the least ardent of them had to smile at that. That was the point of them doing this, after all.

"Hey, Commander?" asked McKenna. "What will you do when we make it home? I mean, after the War's done?"

Weissdrake smiled, the scar tissue stretching to accommodate. "Star in a beauty pageant." He waited for the laughter to die down, then continued. "Seriously, I'm a soldier, and I'll always be a soldier. The idea of having to give up being a soldier is like someone telling me that I'm not allowed to breathe anymore. What about you?"

"I'm gonna work in an office and sit behind a desk."

"More like _under_ one," chortled van Allen.

McKenna sneered, then grabbed van Allen's blanket, lifting open a corner. Van Allen yelped and slapped at McKenna's hand as cold air blew in. "Tha-that was _m-m-mean_, s-s-sir!" protested a shivering van Allen, as everyone else laughed at his misfortune.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," broke in Margul, as the laughter faded out, "I'm gonna get myself a nice big fucking axe, and then I'm going to track down that scheming bitch of an ex-wife I got, then I'm gonna waste her the way I shoulda wasted her years ago." He said it with a totally straight face, but the menace in his voice was more cold than the wind that made the trees rustle.

There was a long and uncomfortable moment of silence, until the Foxe twins made the announcement everyone had been waiting for. "_Coffee's up_."

Five mugs were thrust out from beneath woolen field blankets towards the steaming coffeepot. Margul passed his off to Lacerta. "I'm gonna go take a piss. Don't skimp on the fucking coffee, or I'll mash you back into being one person again, fuckweeds." He shouldered the blanket off of himself and got up, moving unsteadily into the darkness. 

The Foxe twins set the coffeepot somewhere within easy reach, then took Margul's place beside Weissdrake, and the circle closed again. The twins shared one blanket, like they shared virtually everything else.

As Margul stomped off, Weissdrake clutched his full mug in trembling fingers thankfully. "Here's to the future, then, even if it involves an axe." He sipped, then nodded at the Foxe twins. "Not bad for an instant job."

They both smiled. "_Our pleasure, Commander_," was the simultaneous response. With the exception of de la Somme, they were the youngest troopers in the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_.

The circle huddled around their coffee, wondering how much longer it would be before they could really be warm again.

The outside of the tent was colder than the interior had been, if that were even possible to be. Stumbling about and trying to make as little noise as possible, Erik listened for the sounds of life, and heard voices several meters away. Using his hands to guide himself and his hears to hone in on the source of the voices, he crept along carefully, trying not to fall or smack into anything. Groping about blindly and wishing fervently for a light source, he concentrated on the clammy feel of the atmosphere, the icy caress of the wind, and the roughness of the trees his fingers encountered, trusting on his ears to guide him where his eyes could not. The smell of coffee was getting stronger the nearer he got to the voices. He listened for 'Uncle" Antares' voice, but could not make any out at this distance. He would have to get closer.

So intent was he on that goal that when his hand encountered something solid, warm, and fabric-enmeshed, he was startled enough to pause. When something grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him into the air, he screamed.

The sound of the high-pitched scream that broke the quiet of the forest was as shocking as a bucket of ice water to the faces of the gathered six. Blankets and coffee mugs went flying as they leapt to their feet, pistols drawn and pointing into the darkness around them.

"_Jesus_!!" exclaimed van Allen, who had a knife in the hand that was not wrapped around a pistol grip. "What the hell is _that_!?" He was breathing fast and actually sweating, just as they all were.

Weissdrake's eyes searched the blackness in vain for the source of the sound. "I don't know! I don't know!" he hissed, all of a sudden feeling very small in this place. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest, and he clenched his maimed hand into a fist as his gun barrel tracked, looking for a target.

The Foxe twins were back-to-back, each covering for the other, weapons jerking this way and that as the screaming reached a crest.

Movement to the right, and six guns all zeroed in on that point in space. "Grab the damn light, Lacerta," said McKenna calmly. "It's at your feet. We've got it handled, don't worry."

The 'Grimravers' member nodded slowly, sweat from anxiety trickling down under his uniform collar, as he timidly knelt and picked up the lantern. He shined it into the darkness. . .

. . .and there was Margul, holding a terrified child up off the ground by an arm.

"_Mother of God_!!" swore Lacerta, falling backwards and sitting down on his rump. "_Damn_ it all, Commander!"

The collectively-held breath by the other five let itself out in a whoosh that sent steaming clouds into the air, and six guns lowered themselves slowly.

"Fucking hell, Vladimir!" berated Weissdrake. "What in the name of Zeon do you think you're _doing_, scaring us like that?"

The big man sneered at them. "You goddamn pansies done acting like scared little bitches yet? Lookee what I found snooping around in the woods."

The child's cries had become muffled sobs of pain and fear. Margul used his free hand and pulled out a wicked-looking, nonregulation, serrated-edged combat knife and waved it in the boy's face. "This's the one that hangs out with that fucking monkey Antares. What the fuck're you doing loose, boy?"

Sniffling sounds were all that issued from the kid's mouth, and Margul got a disgusted look on his face.

"You've made your point, Vladimir," said Weissdrake quietly. "Put him down now."

Margul's huge head swung to glare at Weissdrake. "Kiss my ass, Scarface. This one fucked up, and I think a little punishment's in order. Can't have all eight of the little shits thinking we're all as fucking easy to push around as Antares is, can we now?"

The other six were frozen in place, unable to move for risk that Margul would react badly and plunge the knife into the boy's throat or something. They had all known how brutally violent Margul could be, and they also knew he was very capable of doing what he said he would.

The Zeon ace got very close to the boy, face inches away, knife point tapping the whimpering child's tear-streaked face. "So how 'bout it, NewType? What part of your face you wanna lose for breaking our rules, huh? How 'bout one of those faggoty eyes you got? Your fucking lips? Your useless tongue? Tongue sounds fine to me, since you've only used it to complain with."

"For God's sake," whispered van Allen to McKenna, "do we shoot the sack of shit or what?"

McKenna's eyes were fixed on the scene in front of him. "Not sure, lad."

Lacerta's pistol was still in his hand, and he surreptitiously aimed it at McKenna and van Allen's backs, ready to shoot them both if they so much as made a move to raise their weapons to harm his commander.

Erik had never been so scared in his life. Even after having been kidnapped, after seeing Kassel, after brushing the mind of Reinhardt von Seydlitz, it had never been more apparent that someone meant to do him harm. The crushing grip on his upraised wrist that held up above the ground, the fact that his arm was about to separate itself from its socket, and the very real hardness of the cold knife wavering in front of his eyes was nothing compared to what lived in the mind of Vladimir Margul.

Erik caught flashes of coherent pictures in between bouts of his own fear overriding the rational centers of his advanced mind, but the majority of what ran through the consciousness that was Margul was a swirling plethora of negative emotions: greed, jealously, rage, hate, and lust. They were a roiling jumble of colors and shapes, ever changing and being changed by each other. Erik's experience with the minds of human norms was very limited, but where the mind of Antares de la Somme was a riot of bright color and a lot of little hidden compartments where he kept his secrets, Vladimir Margul was wide open, but he had nothing within him anyone wanted to see or acknowledge as a common link between themselves and a beast like Margul. Erik had to come to grips very quickly with the fact that Margul was not only a good killer, he enjoyed it more than anything else in the world. There was no conscience with Margul, at least none that Erik could find, and no sense of humanity. Erik had little doubt that if this were not a war, Margul would find a way to get rid of everyone else in the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ in as painful a fashion as he could devise. The images of what he wanted to do to a woman that Erik supposed was his wife he would never forget, as was one of an exploding bus, the faces of those inside very visible under magnification just before their immolation.

And it was in that facet of the pseudo-personality of Margul that he saw his pictures. A black mapcase was most prevalent, and there were a few scattered others, but the black case was a persistent image, though Erik could not divine what it was about this case that would so draw someone of such a makeup. Though piqued by curiosity, Erik was in too much pain to attempt to delve further than he already had. He needed to escape, since it was very clear that irreparable harm was about to be done to his physical form.

The illumination of this tableau was almost too poor for human vision to focus on, but somehow the horror of the events about to unfold made the scene all-too clear for the six paralyzed onlookers.

"Vladimir," said Weissdrake quietly, "put the boy down. _Please_."

Margul snorted and gave the arm a hard yank, eliciting another cry from the dangling child. "I don't need your goddamn advice, Scarface. You ain't got the rank or the nuts to boss me around, so keep your fucking lips shut."

Weissdrake took a step forward threateningly, stopping only when Margul placed the knife point underneath the child's left eyelid. Cripple though he may have been, Karl Weissdrake did not step down from a challenge, especially one issued by a non-New Koenigsberger degenerate like Margul. "Then why don't you try that knife out on me instead? It'll be safer for you that way: harm that child and you catch six bullets."

"You can wait your turn then, Charcoal Man." The boy cried out again, more out of fear than pain this time, struggling feebly. Margul ran the tip of the blade gently across the boy's lower lip. "C'mon now, open up for daddy. You're only getting what you fucking deser-"

And Margul's head snapped back like he had just been struck in the face. His eyes bugged out of his head in confusion as he stared at the boy, who looked him directly in the eyes. Margul's head rocked again, and he dropped the knife. The big ace blinked twice. "What the _hell--?_"

And then Antares de la Somme flew out of nowhere, smashing both knees into Margul's back and knocking the bigger man off his feet. He dropped Erik, who landed in a heap and then rolled away. De la Somme pounced on Margul's back and started smacking him on the skull with a flashlight. Hard.

Margul was struggling like a bronco trying to buck its rider, but the smaller man was not inclined to let Margul stand up or roll over. He tossed his uniform jacket over Margul's head, clamping it to the ground with his knees, and continued bludgeoning.

"How'd you like _that shit_, Vlady baby?! You _like_ getting your ass whipped?! You _liking_ getting beat like a bitch, _huh_, fuckface?! You still thinking you're a tough guy, you goddamn bully?!" screamed de la Somme down at the writhing form beneath him. "You may _think_ about that shit a lot, but you're a fucking _coffee stain _compared to me, shit ball!! I've been to the _edge_, man, and I looked down when I got there!! You wanna live on the edge, too, assblaster?!"

The flashlight plinked off of Margul's head, and the enraged ace roared unintelligibly and pushed off from the ground. The lighter de la Somme's weight was insufficient to hold Margul down, and the contorting mass began to rise to its feet. De la Somme cinched in the uniform jacket, beginning to cut off Margul's air supply even as he continued smashing Margul's head and yelling epithets that echoed in the woods. If there was any living soul within a mile, they would have heard this racket with ease.

"You got away with it in the War, Vlady, but you ain't getting away with it _here_, not while I'm still fucking _breathing_!!" The flashlight smacked off of Margul's cranium again, but de la Somme lost his grip on it and it went arcing off into the darkness, its bulb reduced to glass splinters. The big man finally managed to shake off the clutching limpet that was de la Somme and pull the jacket off of his head. Margul looked like someone had been beating him with a sock full of quarters, but his eyes were filled with a fury that was mocked in the eyes of de la Somme. Somewhere along the way, Margul had retrieved his knife, and it whistled through the air menacingly.

"You're a _dead little faggot_, 'Killing Star'," snarled Margul, blood on his teeth. "I'll spike your skull on my _Kaempfer_!"

"Oh, honey, you're not the _only_ child rapist to tell me that! C'mon, asshole, I'll make you _famous_!" De la Somme waggled his hands in a 'bring it on' gesture, then gave the big man both fingers and stuck his tongue out.

With a animal bellow of rage, Margul lunged forward. De la Somme's eyes became those of a predator, and he calmly waited for Margul to close. . .

"**STOP**." The single word cut through everything, slicing through the darkness like a flechette round. Margul stopped in mid-lunge, and de la Somme froze in place. The other six could not even raise their guns. Lacerta actually dropped his. Erik's eyes widened as he turned around.

Dietrich von Mellenthin was silhouetted in the eerie green of the Cyalume sticks, but it was unmistakably him, and he was wearing his full uniform, but over it lay the formal greatcloak he had used during the War. This greatcloak was legendary, even to Zeon not from New Koenigsberg; it was dark gray, the eagle-and-Zeon Cross in gold on the back, and lined in white-and-black fur of a quality unmatched by any terrestrial animal. The fur was from a genetically-engineered white liger, a crossbreed of a Serengeti lion and a Siberian white tiger, then modified to make it bigger and stronger. In what had been a televised event within New Koenigsberg and a popular bootleg video within Side 3 and Luna, von Mellenthin had slain the beast alone, in the jungle biome of New Koenigsberg, with his own bare hands, though it had nearly killed him in the process. But he had survived, and recovered, and now his old adversary's flesh warmed his own as a trophy of his might. It was impressive even to the uninformed, but for him, it had merely been another test of his own abilities.

The lantern shed a little light on von Mellenthin's face, and it was a mask of fury that neither Margul nor de la Somme could have hoped to match. The others, even those who had seen von Mellenthin in such a state before, quailed before him. Like something out of Tolkien, his form had become something dark and terrible to behold, and he himself knew full well the effects of his own presence could have on those not empathically resistant to it (of which there had been only fourteen, and they could do this little trick of pheromones and pure force of personality, too). This was not something that most Elector-Princes chose to use often, as it could build a dependency on both the wielder and those it was wielded against, but in this case, von Mellenthin was making an exception, if only to stop this nonsense before it got any further.

Karl Weissdrake recovered first, unable to tear his eyes away from von Mellenthin, trying not to allow his knees to tremble. "_Attention_!" he barked out, though to his ears it sounded more like a squeak. The Zeon snapped to full attention in an instant, Margul dropping the knife to the ground, blood tricking from a gash above his eye.

He walked slowly and calmly, his too-graceful movements belying the dangerous temper beneath the surface. "And just _what_ did you think you were doing? Blithely engaging in a duel while in the middle of an operation? Shame, shame." 

His steps took him past the assorted six and Erik, his gloved hand brushing the top of the boy's head in an almost loving gesture as he walked by, eyes smouldering with a palpable anger. He stopped in front of Margul, who just bled, and de la Somme, who looked contrite enough to almost be convincing.

Von Mellenthin leaned in close to the both of them, sniffing the air slightly. "I'm _very_ much aware of the vulgar amount of loathing you two have for each other, but I would have thought that your respective ranks combined with the fact that we _are_ in a situation that requires _discretion_ would temper that hatred somewhat. It appears I was mistaken. And so now I want an explanation as to _why_ I've been proven wrong." He glared hard at the two Commanders. "Now, please."

De la Somme spoke first. "Sir, Commander Margul has a problem involving child molestation." Margul's lips peeled back in a sneer, and de la Somme shot him a sidewards look and smiled evilly. "He _loves_ the cock, _bo~ong_!!"

Margul's fist lashed out in a hammerblow, but von Mellenthin's hand shot out from underneath the greatcloak before it had completed half its arc and closed around Margul's beefy wrist. The fist did not move any further, no matter how Margul struggled to free it and deck de la Somme.

Von Mellenthin's face was not amused by his foster brother's antics. "Your actions have just confirmed to me that you're both willing to put your own interests before the interests of the Division. _That_, my erstwhile soldiers, constitutes insubordination, a penalty punishable by the scourge."

Margul stopped trying to free his arm from von Mellenthin's grip, and de la Somme visibly paled. In the War, von Mellenthin had only ever ordered one scourging, a stupid Private who had violated the "no looting" order on Berlin. That poor soul had taken twenty lashes from a cat-o'-nine-tails and had looked like he had been chewed on by a hay rake. De la Somme had not been there to see it, but the guy had shown off his scars for a long time afterwards as a warning that Dietrich von Mellenthin was not a man with whom to fuck. Von Mellenthin had wielded the scourge himself back then, and there was little doubt as to who would bear the burden of the task again.

"If it weren't for the fact that we're going to have company any moment now, I would _gladly_ lash you both to ribbons for this outrage." Von Mellenthin's voice was low and baleful, very much like a warning growl that certain large, maned cats gave to show displeasure, but his eyes remained hotter than a hundred suns. "So I will be _lenient_ this once on the both of you, but before you think that I'm cutting you any slack because I've gotten 'soft', remember this: if you even think about acting on your own against my directives from this moment forward, I will break you both on a wheel and leave you for the Federation to find." The General did not blink, projecting his strength of personality through his eyes at the two before him. "If you make this behavior as your example to your men, _Kommandants_, then I will make examples out of _you_. Clear?"

"Absolutely, sir," said Margul, reining in his own anger. He had seen what this man could do, and was not willing to test his strength one-on-one against von Mellenthin no matter the reason.

De la Somme was quiet, but he was still extremely upset, and that was obvious. "Yes, sir," he murmured.

Von Mellenthin released Margul's wrist from his vise-like grip. "Mister McKenna?"

"Aye, sir?"

"Take the child back to the tent where the others are and chain him to his cot. Then tell Mister Reiter that if anything gets past him again he's a dead man."

McKenna blanched. "B-But, sir? The boy just, well, during the fight, he-"

"Obey my request, please. Explanations should not be necessary in this instance."

McKenna blinked, then held out a hand to Erik, who waited until de la Somme nodded his approval before taking it cautiously and walking with the red-haired Marine Lieutenant. "Don't turn my brains to stew, please," said McKenna as they left the circle of light and soldiers.

Von Mellenthin's blue eyes tracked Erik's departure before coming to rest on de la Somme. "Come with me, _Kommandant_. The rest of you may go about your business, but don't think you won't gain my notice if you screw up. My mercy pool just emptied itself for the night."

Von Mellenthin turned and walked off, de la Somme trailing in his wake, snagging his uniform jacket from the ground on the way and giving Margul the finger again as he walked off. The smaller man raced a bit to catch up, his walking speed unable to allow him to keep pace with the taller von Mellenthin. "Thanks a lot, Deet. I coulda handled him, but it woulda-"

"Shut up." Von Mellenthin was in no mood for idle chatter, and not because of the de la Somme/Margul rivalry. He was worried, but would be damned before he let that show to anyone else.

"Okay, okay, no need to get testy. . ." The ace shoved his hands into his pockets.

Von Mellenthin spun on a heel, and de la Somme bounced his face off of the General's chest. "Do you have a problem with hearing, _Kommandant_? Did I or did I not just tell you to shut up?"

De la Somme did the smart thing and did not voice an answer, contenting himself to rubbing his pointed nose. Von Mellenthin led them to the radio tent, where Nolan Kerr was on duty. The Private shot to his feet when von Mellenthin threw back the tent flap and entered.

The General took one look at Kerr. "Get out."

Kerr did not argue, almost bowling over de la Somme in his haste to flee the confines of the tent. Von Mellenthin pointed at the vacant chair. "Sit."

De la Somme complied. "Would you like a bark with that, too, Deet?"

Condescention was the last thing von Mellenthin needed. "If I require it, _YES_!!" snapped the rumbling voice, lips twisted in an expression of distaste.

The tone in von Mellenthin's voice stunned de la Somme. _Oh, shit, he means it_.

"Tell me _why_, Antares. Why am I out there dealing with your inability to grow up when I should just bake you into a pie and send you to Bonn?"

"Ummm," de la Somme mused for a moment, then grinned weakly. "Because without me around Reinhardt would get on your nerves? Because I'm dead sexy? Because I know something about these kids that you don't? Because--?"

Von Mellenthin held up a hand. "Explain that last one."

"Explain why you're so miffed."

"Are you _extorting_ me, you dreadful little worm?" The heat from von Mellenthin's anger was actually radiating off of him in waves, and the interior of the radio tent was becoming very warm in comparison to the night outside.

De la Somme ducked his head in acquiescence. "Naw, just keeping secrets until you stop keeping secrets."

"My secrets are my own. Spill it, Antares."

"Nuh-uh." The ace shook his head emphatically, crossing his arms over his chest, but he did not raise his eyes, still unconsciously yielding to a stronger predator.

Von Mellenthin's reddened face went scarlet. "Very well, then, I'll _tear_ what you know from the breasts of those children one at a time, and I'll let you _watch_!"

"_OKAY_!!" yelled de la Somme, jumping to his feet. "_FINE_!! I'll _tell _you! The goddamn Feddies made them as _weapons_, just like Reinhardt said they did!! At Kassel, Erik said that he loved war!! There, are you _happy_ now!?! Go off and _kill them_, since that's what you were _waiting_ to hear, wasn't it??"

The General started pacing back and forth, fists clenching and unclenching. "That explains it," he whispered as he paced, "yes, it all makes sense now."

"Ummm, _exsqueeze_ me? What 'makes sense'?"

Von Mellenthin paused in his pacing, as though noticing de la Somme for the first time. "Hmm? Oh, something I found in the disc from the genetic research lab in Heidelberg, but I wasn't certain what all it meant. Now, I do."

"Care to fill me in on it, or do I just get to _watch_?" De la Somme's lower lip was quivering, and his eyes were expectant.

Von Mellenthin could not help but get a chuckle out of the sight. That facial expression was exactly the same as the one de la Somme had used when he was just a boy, especially when someone was doing something fun and he wanted in on it, too. "You get to watch. That's all you deserve, since _you_ can't keep a handle on your emotions for more than thirty seconds at a time."

"Can _too_!!" protested de la Somme. "Watch!" And the diminutive pilot sucked in a deep breath and started holding it.

Von Mellenthin watched, bemused and glancing at his watch. "I'm not going to kill the children, Antares."

Before thirty seconds had passed, de la Somme's held breath escaped in a whoosh, and he coughed. "Wha-?"

"That's what you're so afraid of, isn't it? Reinhardt wants me to kill them now, true, but I have other plans that even he does not know about that require them to be alive."

De la Somme's eyes filled with tears. "I-I-I don't, I mean, I'm, you know, _grateful_ to hear you say that, but I'm not sure I--?"

"'Understand' is the word you're looking for, I think?"

The smaller man hung his head down, letting the tears fall silently. Von Mellenthin tsked him once. "You need to have more faith in me, Antares. You of all people should figure out that I _always_ have a plan. Hell, I'm the one who told Reinhardt to snatch the children in the first place, once the time was right, because I _knew_ the Federation military would not keep their hands away from playing with genetics after the success of Amuro Ray. If I wanted them dead, they would not have left Heidelberg alive. Circumstances dictate that I need them alive, so stop fucking fretting about it."

De la Somme's shoulders were shaking as he cried.

"You and I have never been as close as you and Reinhardt, or myself and Reinhardt, Antares, but I still know you well enough to know that you won't let anything hurt those children. And that is why you and Margul were stupidly fighting out there. Margul was going to hurt the boy, and you stopped him."

"I've been so damn _patient_, Deet. . ." moaned de la Somme amid his tears, still unable to look von Mellenthin in the face.

"Yes," agreed the General, "you have been, but I need you to wait a little longer. You know that I have faith in you and your abilities, so why do you make me doubt your loyalty? What is it you _want _to get you completely in synch with Reinhardt and I?"

"You _know_ what I want, Deet," said de la Somme, finally raising his head to look his foster brother in the eye, and something dreadful and hungry was in his own amber eyes. "I'll do almost anything to get it, too, but you know that I have my morals and my limits and _please_ don't make me ditch them just to have what I was promised!"

Something very similar returned de la Somme's gaze. "Oh, you want it _bad_, don't you? You're _starving_ for it, aren't you? Eight years you've waited for me to give you the word."

"Eight years. . ." confirmed de la Somme, voice firm with longing, as his mind retreated back to a different time.

The older man put his hands on de la Somme's shoulders. "Are you _ready_ to hear the price for me allowing this boon?"

"I've _been_ ready, Deet," said de la Somme, teeth baring like a wolf's to match the leonine grin that von Mellenthin wore.

"Then listen closely." Von Mellenthin drew the smaller man into an embrace, resting his head atop de la Somme's, and his voice lowered to the barest whisper, letting the vibration of his words transmit directly through his ribcage and into de la Somme's ears, subvocalized so that no eavesdropper could spread word of this plot of death. "These eight children have been subjected to some sort of hormonal psychotherapy, triggered by violence to achieve some imperative. They are indeed weapons, with the potential to be true NewTypes if the disc is not a lie and the Federation has done what they intended to them."

He was interrupted by the radio, which gave a quiet squawk and a hiss of static. Inside the interference, von Seydlitz's voice spoke: "_Flashpoint. Flashpoint_."

At the sound of his brother's voice, von Mellenthin's head lifted from de la Somme's, and his eyes closed as though he were in pain. He had suspected this would occur, but now it was confirmed that he would have to go through with it after all. It was the only way. 

De la Somme felt von Mellenthin stiffen at von Seydlitz's words, and squeezed the older man harder. Von Mellenthin continued: "I, however, do not view them as weapons, but as _currency_, enough to buy us a future. I need you to guard that future until I release you of that burden. Can you do that?"

Something had changed. De la Somme could hear that something was wrong in von Mellenthin's voice. He nodded anyway.

"Then it is done. I grant your wish."

They ended their embrace, though von Mellenthin kept a gloved hand atop de la Somme's head. The little man was smiling to end all smiles. "No one'll be the wiser, Deet, 'cept you and me and God."

The General smiled down at his younger brother. "Then go now, and cause no more buffoonery. The Federation will be here soon, and we will need all the strength we can get. Send me _Leutnant_ McKenna when you see him." He swatted de la Somme across the head, sending the maniacal ace reeling out of the tent, hooting and skipping away into the cold of the dark forest outside. When he was gone, von Mellenthin sat down on the chair near the hissing radio, and his eyes grew very, very distant.

When McKenna arrived, von Mellenthin never looked at him. He just said: "Begin dispersion, full density."

**__**

Solling range (near Holzminden), Niedersachsen, Central Europe

November 14, 0087

A line of fire reached out and connected the predatory AH-77 Cerberus attack helicopter with its _Zaku Kai _prey, the eruption of the shaped charge Mjollnir anti-armor warhead knocking the mobile suit back, chunks of its armor raining to the earth from the impact point on the suit's left arm. The suit staggered under the blow, but Dalyev kept it on its feet and raised its MMP-80 90mm machine cannon to return fire. Two more missiles streaked from two other Cerberi choppers towards the beleaguered Zeon suit, forcing it to move to evade and thus ruining its aim.

Reinhardt von Seydlitz brought up his _Gouf Custom's _75mm and let one round leave its massive Gatling-style barrels, the tracer smacking into the flank of one of the Cerberi and sending the attack helo spinning off its course, buying Dalyev a little more time. Unlike the Thistle scout helos that the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ had destroyed at Kassel, the Cerberus was another beast entirely. The last of the rotor-equipped attack helicopter designs before the Federation switched production to Fan Fan-type hovercraft, the Cerberus was the final iteration of the classic air cavalry combat vehicle. Equipped with a tri-barrelled 35mm on its vulture-like nose and supplemented with two more 30mm pod-mounted chain guns, the kinetic firepower of a single Cerberus was enough to rival a tank platoon. Tack on the impressive amount of antitank Hellfire IV HEAT missiles and the brand-spanking new Mjollnir HEAP anti-armor missiles, plus an assorted plethora of conventional HE warheads, 3-inch Scylla 18-rack antipersonnel rocket pods, Goshawk anti-radar and Unhallow laser-guided munitions, and very effective electronic countermeasures in a non-Minovsky particle-producing vehicle, all wrapped up in an extraordinarily nimble and gruesomely well-armored fast attack helo that would have made the aviators driving the old AH-64D Apache Longbow shed tears of jealous rage. All in all, while a single Cerberus could not hope to take down a mobile suit, two or three of them most certainly could make a good show of it.

Herschel Invictus Cramer had dispatched twenty of these things to deal with Reinhardt von Seydlitz and his two co-marauders, a move that von Seydlitz had concluded was the most logical for Cramer to make, since the Cerberi could fly at well over 200 km per hour, unlike Cramer's mobile suits. Von Seydlitz felt a sort of grim amusement that the Federation would expend so much effort on three Zeon suits. They had crossed the Weser at Bad Karlshafen in a tactical maneuver to use the _Solling_ to their advantage, and had managed to cripple or destroy five of the Cerberi, using the hilly and wooded range as a shield against the worst retaliation, but now they were in the open stretch, heading for the bridge that would allow them to cross the Weser river again and link up with the rest of the 10th at the Teutoberg forest. Von Seydlitz knew that they were now too far north to make use of the nearest bridge, which was in Beverungen, and he was certain that Cramer would expect it; thus, he had set their crossing point at Holzminden, which would enable himself, Dalyev and Haskell to use the Falkenhagen forest on the western side for cover and simply walk into the outer reaches of the Teutoberg.

What he had not counted on was the dogged persistence of these thrice-damned helicopters. Instead of doing the safe thing and withdrawing back to their own forces after harrying the Zeon, they were staying and fighting it out, unheeding of the cost to their squadron. While dismayed slightly at the unexpected tenacity of the angry Federation pilots, von Seydlitz knew that the helos had to go back for refueling and rearming sometime, and right soon, or risk stalling out far from a friendly base. Von Seydlitz grudgingly admitted that had he not been shackled with the problem of logistics himself, this fight would have been over long ago, but after three hours of hide-shoot-hide with these rotobladed nuisances, the Feds were reaping the spoils of victory in this engagement. While his own suit had taken little more than superficial damage, Dalyev's _Zaku Kai _was getting tatttered badly, and their great equalizer, Haskell's deadly flak-throwing _Zaku Cannon_, was barely walking now, so badly were its actuators damaged. Von Seydlitz was not at all pleased by the Cerberi's willingness to ignore the other two Zeon suits to concentrate their fire on the _Zaku Cannon_, which had taken down three of the five eliminated helos by itself.

"_Colonel_!!" yelled Dalyev's voice in his ear, static-filled due to Minovsky radiation and the Cerberi's jamming. "_They're encircling_!"

Von Seydlitz's eyes flitted over the tac display, watching the red dots that were the Cerberi move in a ballet of death around Dalyev's green dot. "Unsullied Three, lay suppression fire on targets Two and Five on my command. . .Now."

"_Roger that, Unsullied One_!" Haskell's voice sounded strained, like he was fighting something other than the Cerberi. Nevertheless, the _Zaku Cannon _stood up unsteadily from a kneel in a dense but limited treeline and spat antiaircraft fire from both the shoulder-mounted flak cannon and the 120mm autocannon in its hands. In a dazzling flash, Cerberus Two vaporized in a rain of fire and shrapnel as the _Zaku Cannon_ claimed its fourth victim.

Von Seydlitz's _Gouf Custom _baseball-slid across the ground, a furrow of earth almost half a kilometer long being dug in its wake, as the e-whip lashed out and entangled the dual rotoblades of Cerberus Six, dragging the 'copter close enough for him to sever the tail from its fuselage with the heat saber. The remainder of the Cerberus went spinning off, out of control, to crash into the earth somewhere else. The _Zaku Cannon's _120mm shells forced Cerberus Five to evade, opening a hole for Dalyev's _Zaku Kai _to escape into open ground and out of the circle.

The _Gouf Custom _stood to its feet, just as a pair of Hellfire IVs smacked into its Luna-Titanium shield. The metal buckled under the force of the twin explosions, and the giant suit tipped over despite the orders of its pilot, landing on its right side. Calmly, von Seydlitz ordered the suit to scissor its legs and right itself, which it did. A cursory inspection revealed that the shield on the left arm had not been breached, but he did not have time to run a complete check, as 30mm tracers began tracking in from two of the remaining Cerberi. He began moving westward again, following Dalyev and Haskell.

"_Holzminden in sight, Unsullied One_," came the excited voice of Haskell, who was on point.

"Proceed to bridge, you two, best speed. I am directly behind you." Von Seydlitz, despite the stress of the situation, had not even broken a sweat yet. Compared to the freakish nightmare that had been the siege at Metz, being set upon by a pack of Federation flying hellhounds was hardly cause for true concern. Besides, the Luna-Titanium skin of his suit was weathering the fire of its foes extraordinarily well.

Running backwards in a mobile suit was not an easy feat, but von Seydlitz was not some fresh-out-of-the-Training-Battalion gimp pilot. Two more of the Cerberi were forced to withdraw due to extensive damage as the _Gouf Custom's_ 75mm spewed lead at the helicopters, who eagerly returned fire with their own weapons, scoring several good hits on the Zeon suit, hits that would have mauled a normal _Zaku._

Three of the Cerberi broke off their attack runs on the _Gouf Custom_ and dashed ahead for the other two suits. "Three at six!" he barked into his radio.

Dalyev's _Zaku Kai _kept running, even as lines of tracer fire riddled the rear of his suit, blowing out the thruster backpack and knocking the Zeon suit to the ground in a metal heap. Haskell's _Zaku Cannon _planted itself firmly in place and opened fire with both weapons, driving the three helos away for a moment, but the agile Cerberi simply spun on their axes and began unloading fire into the _Zaku Cannon_.

"Unsullied Three! Break off and withdraw! Get across the bridge!" Von Seydlitz began laying down covering fire on the hovering attack helicopters, feeling the stings as the other Cerberi began peppering his armor with high-velocity 30mm rounds.

The frustrated _Zaku Cannon _waited until Dalyev's _Zaku Kai_ regained its feet, then gave the helos one more burst from its 120mm before making a break for it, using a powered jump to leap into Holzminden. Von Seydlitz followed, giving off short bursts from his 75mm to deter their enemies from pursuing. The effect was not what he intended.

Rather than break off the engagement and simply wait for the Zeon to cross out of the respectably-sized town on the far side of the Weser, the eleven remaining Cerberi resumed formation and drove after the fleeing Zeon suits. Von Seydlitz's _Gouf Custom _crossed the bridge, and then he watched in horror as the eleven Cerberi bypassed his own suit and unleashed their full fury on the _Zaku Kai_.

Dalyev's _Zaku Kai_ caught a salvo of 3-inch Hydra rockets across its waistline, detonating the grenades it carried on its leg skirting. The explosion tore the mobile suit in half, just in time for the torso to erupt in white flame as the helicopters finished it off with HEAP missiles. A cloud of billowing white smoke obscured the final resting place of the MS-06FZ.

Von Seydlitz heard Lieutenant Anton Dalyev die, and his own howl of rage rivaled the death scream of the 27 year-old soldier in its power. For the first time since Metz, the 358th Light Assault had lost a soldier. Two of the Cerberi were simply riddled apart as the _Gouf Custom_ brought its own full firepower to bear. But it was useless; there were simply too many attack helicopters, and as a single unit save the three that kept von Seydlitz occupied, they turned their attention to the _Zaku Cannon_. Haskell held his ground, the cover of the Falkenhagen less than a kilometer behind him, _Zaku Cannon _on its knees.

"_Get going, Unsullied One. Finish Nemesis for us_." Haskell's voice was deathly calm, even as his suit began to take fire.

"Negative," rasped von Seydlitz harshly. "Turn around and get that crate into the forest. I will cover you."

"_I can't, Colonel_," said Haskell, almost pleasantly, "_I can't move my right leg. I'm immobile, and I'll be damned if I'll crawl to the General with a busted-up suit_."

"I will not lose you both, Haskell!" von Seydlitz's voice was almost desperate, as the 75mm spat another burst at the circling Cerberi. "I _cannot_!!"

"_You already have, Colonel, so win the War for us as an apology. Please go, sir. Tell them we died like Zeon, and that we'll miss them all. Like you always told us, Colonel, this ain't the time for heroics, just soldiering_."

Biting his lip to keep it from trembling, von Seydlitz slowly nodded. "As you wish. Farewell, Kyle Haskell."

The _Zaku Cannon's _flak gun went dry, and the Cerberi descended, Hell erupting from underneath their wings and chins. The MS-06K shed armor and pieces of itself in a rain of slagged steel and fragments as the Federation weapons tore into its armored hide. The entire left arm assembly blew off, and the suit slumped, but it still held its 120mm in its right hand, and the finger still squeezed the trigger, until the drum ran dry and the doomed _Zaku Cannon _had nothing left except its heat hawk, which it clawed for until a Mjollnir missile obliterated the grasping hand.

As the sprinting _Gouf Custom_ reached the treeline, von Seydlitz heard Haskell's voice one last time. "_Farewell, 'Black Eagle'. We'll meet you in Valhalla._" 

The Zeon mobile suit exploded, but there was nothing but silence on von Seydlitz's radio instead of the death cry of his last soldier. The nine Cerberi hovered over the smoking remains of the _Zaku Cannon_, then turned away and began flying south.

Von Seydlitz smashed his fists on the console. "You will kill my men but you will not kill _me_!? I will make you all _pay_!! _ALL OF YOU_!!" He slumped in his crash chair. "All of you. . ."

The _Gouf Custom _began working its way through the trees, unharried now. Von Seydlitz's anger cooled into something more like grief, but his eyes shed no tears. They still did not know how to. He flicked on the radio to the 10th's unit frequency. "Flashpoint," he said without emotion, "flashpoint." Then he keyed it off and set course for Steinbaum.

****

North of Hofgeismar, Hessen, Central Europe

November 14, 0087

"_We killed two of them, Captain_," said the voice of Dog One in the helmet of Herschel Cramer as his RX-77-3 Guncannon Heavyarms strode at the head of a column of Federation mobile suits. "_Two _Zaku_-types, no survivors. The_ Gouf _got away, but we're out of ammunition and almost out of fuel. We're heading back to Kassel to resupply, and then we'll join you in the hunt_."

"Negative, Doggie One. You 'n yours've done enough already. Leave these Zeek bastards for us to clean up."

The poor warrant officer on the other end sounded patently confused. "_But, sir, we're good to go once we get some missiles and-"_

"I said 'negative', Doggie. The mobile infantry can handle a couple of goddamn Zeeks. Stay in Kassel, that's an order."

"_Captain_," cut in the soft voice of Lieutenant Angela Dyson, his Company XO, as she caught up to Cramer's mobile suit with her own RGM-79C GM Kai. "_I think Dog One and his people have a right to be there, sir. They lost eleven units to these Zeon. I think they're due some payback_."

"Well, I _don't _agree, Lieutenant. Doggies, get your asses back to Kassel and stay put. We'll bring you back some Zeek heads for you to chew on when we're done with 'em. Legion One, out!" Cramer flipped a switch to the unit channel instead of the UHF open broadcast. "Not a bad haul for 'em, eh, darlin'? Two Zeek _Zakus_, BOOM! If the rest of 'em do such a piss-poor job of fightin', we'll make hash out of them fuckers. Little rat-bastards have just scared everyone with their little show, and haven't got the testicles to pull off what their mouths're yellin'."

In her own cockpit, Dyson squeezed her eyes with her fingers, stretching to pop her spine in the crash chair. _Two for eleven? You would think that was a bargain, wouldn't you? _She had tried desperately to get Cramer to stop calling her 'darlin'' for years, but it never worked. The man was a chauvanist that she had had to fight just to participate in the twice-per-year field exercises with the 103rd, and while few outside the immediate six officers knew it, Dyson had whipped Cramer's ass in the simulators three times out of three for the privilege. In fact, she was the best mobile suit pilot in the 103rd, and the only one to grudge her that was Cramer himself, who sought ways of keeping her "out of dangerous stuff like fighting". He had tried it again when the call had gone out to destroy the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_, but she had skirted past that when it became obvious that they were not heading for Madgeburg.

Dyson loved mobile suits. There was a feeling of supreme confidence in making 18 meters of walking armor and firepower move on command and knowing that there was an ass out there that needed to be kicked. Dyson herself had never seen combat, and after eight years she had thought she never would. Delaz had not given her the pleasure of trying, so this run was probably the last she would see of warfare unless the Kalaba decided to invade Europe between now and her retirement. She almost scoffed at that idea; she was only thirty years old, and in great shape. She was not even going gray yet, a fact that amazed both she and her husband considering who they were putting up with as a commanding officer. More than once, their bouts with Cramer's throwback sensibilities had been cause for marathon lovemaking sessions just to channel the frustrations of not being able to deck the son of a bitch. Not that she was complaining, mind. 

Her husband, Lieutenant j.g. Lief Dyson, was in command of 2nd Platoon, and if she canted her GM's head to the left, she could see his red-and-gold and very unique RGM-79G GM Command, which Cramer had rejected as being a "sissy suit". The rare mobile suit had been vied for by casting lots between the other officers, and she had been filled with pride when Lief had won it. There were few GM Commands left anymore, and were almost as rare as GM Customs nowadays. Dyson wondered briefly just how many others had been used as hideaways for hot and sweaty sexual escapades, though: she knew Lief's had been. She wished she were in his mobile suit with him right now, in fact, even though she loved having her own. They had met at Nijmegen of all places, just after the War, and it had been love at first sight twice for the slim, dark-haired Angela Novak; the first time with the GM Trainer, and the second with the tall, broad-shouldered, good-humored, auburn-haired Lief Dyson, who had given her a good run for her money in the training sims and accepted his defeats with a grace no man had ever shown before. After their third one-on-one fight, they were inseparable.

For the longest time, Lief had been her only ally against Cramer, and the only male officer in the 103rd who would stand up for her. He had caught flak from Cramer dozens of times for it, too, getting assigned to what amounted to shit detail for defending his wife's rights as a combat soldier in a combat unit. Dyson knew she did not need her husband to fight her own battles, and had told him as much, but he had been adamant about sleeping with her in their bed with a clear conscience, no matter the repercussions. She needed no more reasons to know she loved him before then; afterwards sealed it in her soul forever. Lief was like that, though, and never hid anything because of it, and he did not even mind her being a higher rank than he was. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing she could do or be that would harm his pride. Dyson knew plenty of females who wished for men like that; she was just the lucky one to find one and keep him.

As if reading her mind, which he was pretty good at, a beep sounded from her console, signaling to her that Lief was calling on their "personal" frequency, 4483 mHz, which was also the date of their wedding.

"Yes, sir, not bad at all. That's two less we'll have to worry about when we get there," she responded to Cramer, rolling her eyes. She could not believe still that he wanted to march the whole unit to Steinbaum and fight a battle with veteran Zeon on their turf. The sending of the Cerberi to scout Kassel and the bridges of the Weser had been her idea, and she had been right, but the officious ass would claim the credit anyway. After all, I'm just a 'gentle creature' who 'doesn't need to fight a war, 'cause that's a man's job'.

"_Almost a shame_," said Cramer gleefully, "_having to waste those mobile suit kills on some helo jocks. They can drink on it when they get back to Kassel, though, but we've just broken fuckface Mellenthin's back. His morale'll be shot to shit when we get there. I think I'll give 'em a chance to surrender, just out of the kindness of my heart and all._"

__

God, how can this man be so goddamn DUMB?? "I'm sure there are plenty left for the rest of us, sir, and that they'll fight it out instead of give up. That's what they do, sir."

"_I like the way you think, darlin'. Keep that attitude up and you'll be a decent trooper someday_."

What stung the most was that Cramer actually meant it. "I'll-I'll keep that hope alive, sir. Dyson out." She flipped off the unit switch and dialed in "their" frequency. "You there, sexy?"

"_Always and by your command, dearest. The Old Man giving you hell already? I can see the fumes coming off your GM's head_." Lief's voice was, as always, full of mirth, though he could be serious as cancer when he needed to be.

"You have no idea. Three 'darlin''s and counting."

"_Want me to kill him? I've got tone._" Lief was as decent a shot with the 90mm as anyone she had ever met, especially within 300 meters.

"That's sweet of you to offer, dear, but I think I can handle it." She cycled her cameras through to low-light, the heat signs of the Guncannon Heavyarms ahead of her beginning to give her a headache.

"_Okay, but make sure you keep that cute ass safe and sound, Old Lady_." He chuckled at that, knowing it got to her that he was a little more than a year younger.

"_Second Platoon_!" snapped Cramer over the open channel. "_You're slacking!! Keep up, wouldya, or you'll miss the fight_!"

"_Aye, Captain_," responded Lief, managing to surreptitiously 'scratch' the 60mm Vulcan's housing on the left side of his GM Command's head with its middle finger. He was a better pilot than Cramer, too.

Dyson smiled at the gesture. "I love you, Lieutenant junior grade Lief Dyson."

"_I love you back, Full Lieutenant Old Lady Angela Novak-hyphen-Dyson_." His GM Command gave her a thumbs-up, which her GM Kai returned before he turned to deal with his lackadaisical other four mobile suits.

Even as her GM Kai sped up to 60 kph, she could not shake a sense of impending dread, despite her desire to fight the Zeon. In the confines of her own cockpit, idly listening to the random chatter on the open frequency, she began to pray that the 10th _Panzerkaempfer _really were disheartened by the loss of two of their own and withdrew from Steinbaum to somewhere else rather than have to face them on their own terms.

That thought entertained itself in her mind as the twenty assorted mobile suits of the 103rd Mobile Infantry Company, the "Legion", marched northwards to meet whatever Fate and the 'Hessian Lion' had in store for them. 


	17. Chapter 16

****

MSG: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed

Chapter 16

Kassel, Hessen, Central Europe

November 14, 0087

The military jeep tore through the devastated streets of eastern Kassel, en route back to the tent city that was both Federation headquarters and refugee camp/field triage for survivors of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_'s attack. The Ensign was driving, as ordered, skirting through back alleys and side streets instead of the debris-clogged main thoroughfares, while Dorff sat beside him in the passenger seat and Bryton and Balke rode in back.

"Look!" called Bryton, pointing upwards. The jeep's top was open, a demand on the part of the Ensign due to the heavy beer smell of his three passengers. Every so often a bottle or some other piece of litter was thrown at them as they passed a structure or a crossroads, but their speed was great enough that not a whole lot of garbage seemed to hit anyone except Balke, who was becoming very annoyed by the Kassel citizenry's uncanny aim with refuse.

Balke brushed some cigarette ash (not his own) from his already filthy khaki-colored uniform jacket, then glanced up at where Bryton was pointing, his rheumy eyes catching the flicker of lights in the night sky. "Looks like an incoming chopper to me!"

"It's one of Cramer's Cerberus helos! They must be coming back for resupply!" Bryton's pointing hand lowered and clutched the side of the jeep as the Ensign swerved to avoid a big chunk of rubble.

Dorff was fiddling with the radio console, not looking at the sky. Screeches of fuzz and static and random radio noise were emanating from the onboard speakers as the digital tuner scanned through frequencies no civilian radio set could hope to pick up.

Balke's eyes narrowed even further as he struggled to make something out in the dark sky. The illumination of Kassel itself helped matters immensely. "There's the rest of 'em! _Hey_!" He slapped the Ensign on the shoulder. "Drive _faster_, would you? There's a fucking war on, you know!"

"_Sir_," snarled the Ensign back over his shoulder, "I'm driving as fast as I intend to considering the obstacles we're going to have to cross to get back to the base alive, so please get off my back, _sir_!"

Balke leaned forward. "I get what you're trying to say, Ensign, but isn't there a quicker way to do this?"

"This _is_ the quicker way to do this!"

"Camael!" yelled Bryton. "Leave the kid alone already! He'll get us there, okay!"

Dorff's radio antics finally picked up on something worthwhile. "Pull over," he said to the Ensign, who complied after Bryton nodded his consent. Balke was still a bit too tipsy to have his judgment trusted at this moment.

". . ._baum ahead, Legion One. First Platoon proceeding as instructed. . .no sign of enemy activity within the town itself, sir. Nothing on infra-red or radar within visible range. . .switching to low-light. . ._"

Balke tapped Dorff on the back of the neck. "Is that what I think it is?"

Dorff shrugged his massive shoulders. "You tell me, Captain. You're the officer."

Balke snorted. "So?"

"So I have no idea what this is, but if I had to guess," grinned Dorff, "I would say it is most probably the unit frequency for Captain Cramer's mobile suits."

The four of them listened intently for a few moments, as patches of conversation came through the interference that distance and terrain caused. "_. . .crossing through the city lim----ference getting stro-----copy, over? Comma----ou copy? Is any-------_"

Another voice cut in: "_Goddammit, Century One! Keep in radio contact! Do you read me? Answer me if you're receiving! Come in, Century One! Hold position at coordinates Two-Five-Niner East! Do not go into the forest, repeat, do NOT enter the forest!_"

Century One's (apparently the call sign for Cramer's First Platoon) answer was unintelligible garble. Balke pointed at the radio. "What the fuck is going on with the reception? Can you boost the gain on that?"

Dorff shook his head. "No, Captain, not with this rig. Perhaps the base will have better signal return with their larger antennae."

Balke shook his head. "Yeah, I guess. . ." he trailed off as his ears caught a noise over the purr of the jeep's engine. "What the hell is that?"

The jeep idled quietly as the four listened to sounds much closer than what was coming out of Steinbaum. Dorff pulled out a magazine of 9mm ammunition he had stashed up his jacket sleeve and slammed it home into his service automatic.

"Sounds like a riot, sirs," said the Ensign. "Maybe three blocks ahead of us."

"Another one?" asked Bryton. This would make the third in as many days. "Don't these people ever sleep?"

Balke looked at his subordinate. "You were in the War, Brak. How well did _you_ sleep after Bayreuth?"

Bryton was sober enough to look ashamed. "I--I don't know where that came from, Camael. I'm sorry."

"'S okay, Brak, I try my best to forget it, too. Ensign, can we get around it?"

"I think so." The Ensign popped the jeep into reverse. "Gonna have to do a little backtracking, sirs."

"I think we can forgive you," commented Dorff as he chambered a round and put the hand holding the gun in his lap. The radio traffic had dissolved into useless static.

The jeep backed up for about two blocks, then took a sharp left and sped up. As they crossed the street separating two of the blocks, Balke looked over and saw a large throng of people in a group. "Not good," he murmured, no one able to hear his voice over the jeep's engine. The next block they crossed had no crowd, and he relaxed a bit.

"It'll get worse, sirs," yelled back the Ensign as he drove, evading most of the debris. "There's probably a mob of press sitting outside the gate to the base by now!"

"No surprise there," said Bryton.

"Yeah, those fuckers're attracted to disasters, and now that Cramer's found himself one, they're all over the--" The jeep _screech_ed to an abrupt stop, cutting off Balke's words and making him almost bite off his own tongue. He clapped a hand over his mouth and winced at the pain, feeling his glands salivate in an effort to deaden the sensation. He gave off an agonized groan, sucking air between his fingers and teeth before staring daggers at the Ensign's back.

His eyes caught the reason before he started to bitch out the Ensign. There was a roadblock made of very angry people in front of them. "Oh, hell. . ." he whispered.

"What now, Captain?" asked the Ensign worriedly. "I don't want to have to run these people down."

"Back away slowly," replied Balke. "Try to get us back to the last block, then detour."

"No go," said Bryton, glancing backwards. Another crowd had formed up behind them. They were boxed in completely. "I think we have a problem."

Balke could not think of a reason to disagree with Bryton's analysis of the situation. He could smell rage emanating from these people. "Nobody panic. Let's just try to ease past without inciting something."

"Forgive me for saying so, Captain," said Dorff, voice like solid steel, "but I doubt seriously any of them intend to let us 'ease' to anywhere."

After a moment of silence, the jeep motor's hum the only sound aside from breathing, there came a cry of anger from the crowd ahead of them, and the mob surged forward with a yell that sounded like the depths of Hell had just run their ambient sound through a Bose amp. Within seconds, the jeep was surrounded, even as the Ensign started moving forward again.

Clawing fingers and grasping hands tore at Balke's uniform, their strength overwhelming his attempts to free himself. The jeep stopped as the Ensign began fighting off the horde as rocks and other debris began raining down on them. Balke gritted his teeth and fought back as best as he could, which was to say more like the way he did before he was a soldier. Even as fists beat him and fingernails gashed his flesh open, his mind fled, recalling another time when sticks and rocks and other fists smashed his flesh to the earth, forcing a young orphan from the streets of Augsburg to crawl in the dust for being a bastard without a name and without a home. The Church had saved him then; where was the Church now? Where were those cassocked priests in black who picked up his shattered form from the filth and grime and nursed him back to health; those stern countenances that he had once thought could have nothing gentle about them, who gave him his name and spoke to him as a man even though he wept as a child? Where were they now, as the very same people who had forced him to be the man he was raked and grabbed at him with their unyielding strength and relentless hatred for him, for the uniform he wore? Were they in this crowd, finally judging him as the lost cause he always knew he was, shaking their heads and fingering their rosaries, or screaming obscenities and curses into his face in German and in Federation Standard, spitting on him for who and what he was? He wondered if this was where he was to die, with his life flashing before his eyes the way it was.

For the briefest instant, he thought to himself that this was the moment he began to relate to Dietrich von Mellenthin, when the Federation consigned him to life forever amongst a people that despised him; a Hell from which he would have never escaped if he had not clawed his way free of his captors. As a stone struck him in the forehead, he thought: _I need to remember this. It's important._

Someone broke a glass bottle over the Ensign's head, and Balke felt the shards rain down on his own face. Bryton was screaming, trying to yell over the roar of the mob, trying to reason with them, but they were not listening. Desperate but still mentally aware of his surroundings, he reached out and grabbed Bryton's hand, even as the struggling younger man was being ripped from his seat in spite of the belt. The crowd pulled with a power that was unreal, but Balke would not release Bryton's hand, even as someone in the multitude took up a length of timber about three feet long and brought it down on Balke's outstretched forearm with a _crack_.

That was when Balke finally opened his mouth and roared with pain that the alcohol in his bloodstream could not numb, but he did not let go of Bryton's hand. At the sound of his friend's voice, Bryton's head turned, eyes wide in shock, to look at Balke. Bryton saw the second blow come down, heard the sickening _crack_ again, saw Balke's sweat- and blood-soaked head shake in denial, felt his hand clench even tighter on Bryton's own. . .

__

Ka-**POW**!!! broke the sound of the crowd's screams of hate and changed them to cries of terror, and the hands released them. Bryton slid back into the jeep's seat, covering the injured Balke with his own body, before looking for the source of the thunderclap. The first thing he saw was a pair of boots, standing on the hood of the jeep. His neck strained to raise his head.

Dorff stood there, face calm even as blood ran down the side of his head, pistol upraised in the air, smoke emanating from the barrel. The mob had taken a step or three away from the jeep with the gun-toting man atop it. Things went very quiet as the shot echoed through the alley.

"_Listen_!" called out Dorff to the crowd, "I can understand that you all must be angry! However, that understanding does not permit me to allow the unlawful detainment and injury of Federation personnel! _Disperse!! Now!!_"

Some brave soul in the crowd yelled out: "Or _what_?!?"

Dorff faced the mob without fear. "Or you don't want to have to find out, _that_ is 'what'! There has been enough killing here already! Go and find life again! You will find no vengeance here, killing four men who seek the very thing you all do!"

"There's a hundred of us, and only one of you!" called out someone else. "You can't kill us all!"

Dorff nodded slowly, pistol still upraised. "No, you're right about that! I cannot! But make absolutely certain that you _do_ kill me, because if you fail in that regard, you will have one _pissed-off Bavarian that will promptly cease to give a damn_!! Make your choice! Either finish us off and be haunted by the murders of four innocent men, or go about your business and let us _kill_ those who _attacked_ you!"

The crowd actually hesitated, discussion from multiple people trickling through the mass of humans. Dorff stood, rock-solid as a god, eyes scanning the mob unerringly. The Ensign, who had lost his hat and most of a jacket sleeve, face bruised from repeated blows, was staring up at him in awe, and not caring a whit that the back of his uniform was staining itself red with his own blood.

"But you _failed_ us!" shrieked a female voice into the air.

"Yes! We did! But we fight on anyway! Look!" Dorff ran a hand over his face, then held it up, palm and fingers red with his own blood. "See?? We bleed even now, just as you bled!" He flicked his hand towards the stones of the street, red droplets flying from his fingers. "My blood also stains the ground of Kassel! _That_ is my solemn pledge that _no_ Zeon will _ever_ set foot in this city without contest from this moment forward!"

"Are you saying that they will return, to finish us once and for all!?!"

"Perhaps!!" conceded Dorff. "But that is war! No one wins every battle, and we Germans have withstood worse than the likes of the Zeon!! So _decide_ your fate and stop _wasting my time_!"

After another long moment of silence, the crowd seemed to lose its interest in shredding the four Federation soldiers and trashing their jeep, and slowly began to disperse. Standing on the jeep's hood until he was satisfied that some raving lunatic would not come barreling back swinging a length of pipe at them, Dorff finally clambered back down into his seat, popping the magazine out of his 9mm and tucking it away. After settling in comfortably in his ever-present slouch, he glanced around the jeep at the other occupants.

The Ensign recovered from his awestruck state. "You--you _talked_ them down. . .the whole damn lot of them!"

Dorff simply nodded, eyes alight like he was waiting for something. The Ensign turned around to look at the rest of his passengers. "Is Captain Balke all right?"

"Camael? _Camael_? You still with us?" Bryton was shaking Balke, who groaned and opened his eyes. "Can I get you anything?"

"_Drugs_. . ." moaned the Captain, blinking to focus his eyes.

"Yeah, he's alive." Bryton managed to get the cursing Balke straightened up, rubbing absently at a runnel of blood that ran down his face. "Corporal Dorff, you've just become my brand new hero. That was a fine speech, indeed."

"That rubbish?" snorted Dorff. "These Hessians are easy to please. I've made more stringent oaths to my children just to get them into bed on time. Could we perhaps begin forward motion again?"

"Just a minute." Bryton leaned down. "Camael? It's over now. Can you move?"

"Hell, yes, I can fucking well _move_!! Awww, _sheee-it_ that friggin' _hurt_!!" The Captain was about as irate as he could get under the circumstances. "Dorff, you're the best personal security ninja a guy can have. Thanks."

"Would you all please stop thanking me and getting all teary? I may start walking in a second if we do not get this vehicle moving again." Dorff crossed his arms over his chest, trying not to look pleased by all the praise.

"You heard the man, Ensign." Gingerly, he flexed the fingers of his throbbing right hand, feeling tendons grate and tissue contract within his swollen forearm. There was pain, and not small amounts of it, but the damage appeared inconsequential.

"Stop doing that!" yelled Bryton, eyes wide. "It's probably broken, you stubborn bull!"

"After _that_? Please! Spare me, Brak, all that sonofabitch did was ruin a perfectly good fucking buzz. The lectors at the orphanage used to cane us for whispering during Mass. That guy with the makeshift baseball bat was a sissy. It just smarts like all Hell, is all. No more wasted time, cause we've got a war to fight." He clutched at his arm with his good hand, wondering if the same God he had spent years running from had just saved his ass yet again, and in his mind, he cursed the fact that he would owe Him yet another favor. The jeep lurched forward towards the base again.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God!" exclaimed the shift officer when the four of them came staggering into the command tent. "What'd you guys do, sir, get into a bar fight?"

"Not exactly, but I'll be damned if I go out for the night life in this town again," said Balke. His eyes scanned the room until he noticed the crossed sabers of a Cavalry soldier, matched up with the pips-and-bars of a warrant officer. "You! You're a chopper jock, ain't you?"

"Yes, sir," the man saluted the bedraggled Captain. "Dubya-Two Hunt, Dog Flight, 103rd Mobile, sir."

"Report, Hunt. Tell me what went down."

"Well, sir, it went kinda like this. . ." and the next ten minutes were spent telling Balke about the fight. In spite of his obvious pain, Balke's attention did not stray from the pilot's account.

"You're sure there were three of them?"

"Yes, sir. Two _Zakus_ and a _Gouf_. Both the _Zakus_ are deader than Brex Forra now, but that damn _Gouf_ got away in the woods, and we didn't have the fuel to keep up the chase. The _Zakus_ were pretty tough, especially that fucking K-type flakspitter, but that _Gouf_ was unreal. It sidestepped almost everything we threw at it, and what it didn't dodge it just took like it didn't care."

Balke's good hand was scratching his nose. "Any markings on that _Gouf_?"

"Black eagle, sir, same as the other two."

"Yeah, it figures," Balke sat down in a field chair heavily, sore arm scrunched against himself. "Seydlitz stayed behind in case Cramer came back to Kassel. He got you guys instead. Probably threw him for a loop, though. You and your boys did good, Hunt, don't let anyone say otherwise. These assholes are all vets, and the _Gouf_ driver's an ace."

"Sir," said Hunt cautiously, "Captain Cramer ordered us to stay here in Kassel. Any way you can see to get in on some more of this action? These pricks took down eleven of my squadron, seven confirmed KIA. Me and mine're a little upset about that."

"Well, chief," Balke popped his neck, feeling the tension in his vertebrae give, "I can't supercede Cramer's order without getting the nod from Titans Major _Li_zard. Let me get on the horn with--"

Bryton threw open the tent flap. "Camael! Get over here!"

"Huh? What?" Balke sat up straight in his chair, head turning to face Bryton.

"We've got Cramer's people on the radio."

"Coming in clear?"

"Not really. Looks like they've either gone into the forest or are in a Minovsky pocket. But it's them."

Balke motioned to Hunt. "I can't get you and your people back into this fight, but you can at least get the chance to listen in. Someone get some chairs and coffee into the comm tent, we're gonna be up a while longer yet. . .and someone get me some _goddamn aspirin_ or something!"

****

Steinbaum, Niedersachsen, Central Europe

November 14, 0087

"_It's really just a matter of physics,_ Kommandant," explained the metallic voice of Dietrich von Mellenthin to a spontaneously-delighted Antares de la Somme. Swathed in several field blankets, his breath steamed in the cockpit of his powered-down _Gouf Custom_.

Von Mellenthin's voice was not coming from the radio, however, since the radio required power to use. Instead, another McKenna innovation had come into being, in the form of a 1 kg tin coffee can that was attached to the open hatchway. Another four cans, each of them with a little label easily readable by Cyalume stick, hung in different spots on the hatchway to keep them all from blending together. From the tails of each can extended a length of copper wire, trailing off into the darkness below, connected to another tin can somewhere either in another cockpit or down at the main tactical site, where the Foxe twins were busily attaching ninety Model 908 Gaussmeter leads to a Model ML-400D MagLab. They had the most tin coffee cans of all, with every suit running a line to their station, which made the whole contraption look like a giant spider web with a box in the center. Their _Gelgoog_ _Jaegers_ were about twenty feet away from them.

"I _know_ that, Deet," called de la Somme into the tin can labeled 'Deet', "but that doesn't make it any less cartoony or 'Beverly Hillbillies'-esque, does it?"

There was a strange sound after a moment, which was von Mellenthin chuckling into the can. "_No, I suppose it doesn't. But sometimes, the simplest things work best. We dare not run the risk of being detected in spite of our Minovsky coverage before it's time, so we go back to the basics._"

"Yeah," acknowledged de la Somme, trying not to shiver, "but who'd ever believe it?"

"_No one, and that is why it will work. Lion One, out._"

"Have fun, Lion One!" giggled de la Somme in response. He craned his neck around to a bemused Erik. "All the technology in the universe and we're using tin cans and wire to talk through. Aren't we special?"

Erik's green eyes reflected the equally-green Cyalume stick. "What are we waiting for?"

"Initial contact. Captain Roberts is up ahead playing lookout for the Feddies. When they get here, we're gonna beat the heck out of them just like we said we would."

"How?"

"Well," said de la Somme, scratching at his numbing nose, "we can see them, but they won't be able to see us. It's all part of Reinhardt's plan."

"His plan? How so?" Erik seemed honestly interested.

"Oh, ho, inquisitive, ain't we? Lemme see, maybe it's magic."

"Magic?"

"Yeah, _maaaaaa-_gic, you know? 'What-ki~nd-of-ma~gic-spell-to-use? Sli~ime and snails; or puppy do~g's tails; thun~der or light~ning?'" The manic pilot paused his squeaky rendition of a Bowie classic. "You don't know that one, do you? I'll have to get you to watch it when we get back into Space. Great plot, rockin' soundtrack, awesome puppets. . .gotta love the puppets."

De la Somme paused again. "I wonder where the hell he _is_, anyway. Shoulda been back an hour ago at least." He turned around in his seat, smiling. "Betcha he got lost. He never was good without landmarks. 'S why he only came in fifth at the Academy."

Erik smiled back at the thought of von Seydlitz stumbling around the woods looking for them.

The can marked "Kerr" buzzed as the young Private's voice transmitted. "_Sir, Sarge, I--I just wanted you guys to know that---_sniff_---if we don't make it out of this---I love you, guys._"

Ogun's voice beat de la Somme to the punch. "_Shut the fuck up, Private. You'd ruin a wet dream._"

"Ex-_cuse_ me, Sergeant Major, but there are _children_ listening," remarked de la Somme into the two relevant tin cans, voice prissy like a schoolmarm. "Keep your crude references to yourselves, please. And that was _very_ touching, Nolan, but not enough to get you a gold star."

"_But I_ WANTED _one!!_" Kerr's voice whined plaintively.

"One what? A gold star or a wet dream?" asked de la Somme offhandedly. "I KNOW!! A wet dream about a gold star! Yeah, that's what you were after, wasn't it, Private Kerr?" The ace changed his voice and gave it a lazy Chicago drawl. "Youse got a thing for bein' a wiseguy, Kerr? Do I gots to come ovah theah an' pop youse one?"

"_If we don't get some Feds soon, that won't be all that pops, sir,_" moaned the other man.

"Look on the bright side, Nolan," answered de la Somme, "this way, it's like ordering takeout only you get to shoot the delivery man without having to pay, but you have to be _patient_ about it. In the meantime, why _don't_/i] you just play with yourself?"

Kerr apparently did not catch all of that. "_Huh_??"

De la Somme winked at Erik and smirked evilly. "C'mon, you know you wanna, Kerr. It's probably been, what, ten minutes since you last flogged the dog? You've got everything you need right there, Nolan: total privacy, a free--no, TWO free hands, a seven year-old girl in the cockpit with you. Nobody's looking but God, Nolan. It'll make you lighter on your feet, Nolan. Warm you right up, Nolan. 'S workin' for me right now, and I'm just thinking of you."

"_You---you're a rotten sonofabitch, sir!_" complained Kerr vehemently, who had a twelve year-old niece back in Side 3. "_I give up_!"

De la Somme thrust a triumphant fist into the air. "How was _that_, Sergeant Major?"

Ogun's voice sounded a tad blasé'. "_No challenge there, Commander, our little chickadee Kerr's too dainty for such talk anyway._"

"I AM the Lizard King!" celebrated de la Somme, still the reigning sicko psycho of the 15th Fast Attack. He leaned over to Kerr's can, affecting the Chicago drawl again. "And keep the change, you filthy animal!"

Kerr got in the parting shot. "_Don't forget to fuck off, sir_." He did not sound amused, but de la Somme never let anyone have the last word.

De la Somme chuckled and sat back. "Yeah," continued the ace, stretching like a cat and picking up right where they left off, "I'll bet he forgot to leave a bread crumb trail to follow back. Poor Reinhardt. I wonder if he'll find a gingerbread house."

Erik knew _that_ story. "He doesn't look much like Hansel."

"You're right, of course, but he'd make a _great_ Gretel, don'tcha think? I'll sure feel sorry for the witch, though. He'd make an _ugly_ cookie."

Erik smiled again, then yawned mightily. De la Somme patted the boy's head, a wistful look in his eyes. "Get some sleep, son. You'll wake up when the action starts. Hell, the whole freakin' world'll rise for this one."

The boy nodded and slid further into the blankets, his stuffed tiger clutched in his hands. De la Somme watched him until his breathing became regular, then settled back into the chair, staring out into the black.

__

Margul, you fat, stinking, buttplugging fuckwit! If he has so much as the beginning _of a nightmare, I'll burn your Jell-O flabby ass to the ground! You wanna fight me, fight_ me!! _But your time's comin', oh, yeah, it's a'comin', Vlady, and I'm gonna be here, Huckleberry, when you _really _wanna play for blood!_

He huffed, watching the white clouds of his breath trail away and vanish. He was fidgeting and he knew it, tapping a foot, then rapping his fingertips on the console, nerves unable to calm themselves.

__

Damn, now I've _got a case of the willies! Okay, God, what're You trying to tell me here? Am I doing the wrong thing? Was this the wrong time to wrangle that favor out of Deet? Am I jumpy 'cause Reinhardt isn't back yet?_ Please_, God, don't let nothing happen to Reinhardt, or his guys. Maybe it's just anticipation. Yeah, that's it, isn't it? I'm just nervous with antici-_PA_-tion, is all. Nothing wrong here, nope, not a bit. Just send me those Feddies, one by one_.

The blackness before him did not respond except with a cold wind, and Antares de la Somme suddenly felt very, very small.

Some meters away, Dietrich von Mellenthin was speaking into the tin can marked 'Tactical'. He had a tin can in his cockpit for every member of his unit, just like the Foxe twins did down below and to the rear. Like de la Somme, he marveled at the simplicity of the can-and-wire phone line, as much as he marveled at how much coffee they had had to drink to acquire that many 1 kg cans. "Lion One to Gemini. Is the grid functioning?"

"_Gemini receiving and online, Lion One. Preliminary testing of the grid proceeding now, General, sir,_" came the odd-sounding reply. "_Initiating_ _startup_ _sequence_."

Von Mellenthin was a bit confused, a state which he knew was probably spreading over his face. "Who _is_ that? Royce?"

"_Of course, sir,_" came the funny voice again, and von Mellentbin realized that this was the first time he had ever heard either of the Foxe twins speak without the other cloning the words simultaneously. "_Who else would it be_?" continued Royce Foxe innocently.

"Never mind, _Gefreiter_. I'm just fascinated by your ability to be an individual after all."

"_Is the General making some kind of joke, sir?_"

"You'll have to forgive me for my confusion, Mister Foxe, but those of us not part of the collective lack the reference to distinguish between you both."

The voice on the other end became almost patronizing. "_I'm glad I could help enlighten the General as to the existence of myself. Did the General realize that pairs of shoes come in individual units, too?_"

"Don't make me come down there and kick you for being coy with me, Mister Foxe." For all their difference in rank, the General was not much older than his enlisted personnel. Von Mellenthin craned his neck and faced the can marked 'McKenna'. "Lion One to Onslaught Two. Confirm Minovsky coverage."

McKenna's voice sounded almost cheerful. "_Minovsky coverage at 100 percent, General. Those three _Zaku_ torsos are spewing the stuff like an uncorked champagne bottle, reactors at one hundred-ten percent, as ordered. We've got an umbrella out to 600 meters from the treeline, and a hair shy of a kilometer's worth of radius. Density will remain constant as long as the reactors don't fail, sir._"

"Excellent, Onslaught Two. How long until estimated reactor shutdown?"

"_One hour at this rate, sir. Can't promise any more than that._"

The voice of Royce Foxe rang in through his/their can again. "_Grid operational, General. Stable ground reading throughout all coordinates_."

"Monitor all changes in aspect across the board. You know the order of battle, so assign targets according to that."

"_Yes, General_."

Von Mellenthin's smile, were it visible to anyone else, would have made the hardest veteran shiver in fright. "Oh, Federation, you should have taught your children that only death lives in this forest. Cramer's Legion will join Varus's long-dead fifteen thousand because of my brother's genius and your own ignorance." But then, it was only natural: no one had ever attempted something like this on the field of battle before.

He was a little concerned about the whereabouts of von Seydlitz, but banished such thoughts from his mind. Von Seydlitz was royal line, a genetically-designed masterpiece of human-enhanced bioevolution, as was himself; to _worry_ was a human norm condition. But von Mellenthin could not stop that particular human nuance from coming to life. He had always worried about von Seydlitz, though he knew the other man would have rankled at the thought of his brother and king deigning to _worry_ like some trivial maid _worried_ about whether or not her nails were the proper shade of purple for some social occasion. That was where the two were different, though. Von Seydlitz placed his faith in the three "G"s of New Koenigsberg's society: God, guns, and genes, and not necessarily in that order. Von Mellenthin placed his faith in the same, but added a fourth: the game plan. Von Seydlitz, had he survived the initial attack when his two subordinates did not (which von Mellenthin knew from the two "Flashpoint" messages von Seydlitz had transmitted during the fight), would have been here. Von Mellenthin knew that his younger brother would rather have chewed off one of his own limbs than go gallivanting through the German countryside. That left two possibilities: either the Colonel had failed to shake off the helicopters and was dead or wounded or outside his mobile suit, or he was lost. Von Mellenthin would have bet on the latter; he was certain that he would have _felt_ von Seydlitz die, such was their bond.

The can labeled 'Roberts' suddenly came to life, the Marine's quiet voice almost inaudible. "_Onslaught One to Lion One. Contact, moving northwest at 2500 meters and closing. They'll enter the grid at coordinates Romeo-Romeo-Four-Five in one minute._"

"Acknowledged, Marine One. All units," said von Mellenthin, raising his voice so that all the cans picked it up and transmitted it, "begin power-up procedure, but do not activate sensors or thrusters. Just bring up the secondary systems for weapons, TacCom, and gyro control. The twins will deal with the rest of the details. Airborne One, make certain your people use the white-striped ones and not the green-striped ones at the onset. You will release on my order." He mashed the button that began the start-up sequence for the kneeling _Zaku Hi-Mo_. "Everyone stay frosty, and we'll have them dead to rights. Lion One, out."

As the machine around him came to a slow but steady life, and he felt more than heard the sound of the reactor begin its heart's beat. He flicked on the tactical computer map and brought up the one labeled 'Steinbaum0087Magnitikos'. The tiny screen produced a bird's eye overlay of the region that the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ lay hidden in, white contour lines denoting changes in elevation. A black set of squares represented Steinbaum on the southwest corner of the screen, and a dark green patch represented the treeline of the _Teutobergerwald_. . .and there was a perfect red grid, labeled with letters on the X-axis and numbers on the Y-axis, as though a fisher's net had been cast across the land. Several months ago, that grid would have corresponded with a line of shallow trenches in the earth dug by John Roberts and his Marines. The grass and mud had eliminated any trace of human disturbances in the meantime, and none could now tell that something insidious and foreign lay beneath the mulch and sodden earth upon which the Federation would stride to their deaths.

He checked the wrist chrono for the time, even as the actuators for the _Zaku Hi-Mo's_ arms began swinging up the 280mm bazooka from its at-rest position to the shoulder of the suit for firing position. It was almost 0545 hours, nearing sunrise, and nearing the time when the Zeon would lower the fog of war upon their enemies.

Down the gentle slope and to the south, the 103rd gathered its numbers back together. The two command hovertrucks of First and Fourth Platoons, respectively, popped open as their crews started grabbing direct comm lines from their interiors, running them to the ankles of the assembled mobile suits. There were not enough lines for every one of the twenty collected mobile suits, but there were enough to link all of the six officers' suits into a network.

"_So_," came Cramer's voice into Angela Dyson's ear, "_to what do we owe the fucking communications blackout?_"

"_Minovsky interference, Captain, very dense_," came the voice of 2nd Lt. Graham Wippler, CO of First Platoon and one of the 103rd's few veterans. "_At least we know we're in the right place, sir. The only things that could be generating it are--_"

"--_Zeek suits, yeah, I figured that out already, Wippler. How're they pumpin' out this much radiation?_"

Wippler's almost-as-rare-as-the-GM Command RGM-79N GM Custom actually shrugged in reply.

Dyson cut on her comm. "Sir, they've probably dedicated several of their suits into generating the field."

"_How many would they have to use for this level of density?_" asked 2nd Lt. Juris Kagan from the cockpit of his RGC-83 GM Cannon II. The CO of Third Platoon sounded a little unnerved by the idea of being under a screen where radar, IR, and radio were almost or totally useless, against an entrenched foe in very ominous and ancient woods, on a moonless night. Dyson did not begrudge him any blame; this was already treading into the realm of _dangerously_ _stupid_ in her book.

The serious yet pleasant voice of the Fourth Platoon CO, 2nd Lt. Constance Flavell, spoke up: "_At least three or four, doing nothing but dispensing particles. As long as they're doing that, they're out of the fight._" Throughout the discussion, her RGM-79Q GM Quell, one of the few newer designs the Federation had bequeathed to the 103rd Mobile Infantry Co., did not take its main camera off of the forest ahead of them, telephoto lenses trying to pick out something in the wall of darkness that lay ahead of them.

"_Which means_," said Cramer confidently, "_that they've given up their mobility. Pretty fucking dumb of them, don'tcha think?_"

Lief Dyson chose then to speak up. "_That doesn't make any sense, sir. Seydlitz is supposed to be a field maneuver specialist, and he'd know same as we do that locking down mobile suits in place is stupid. Anyone else getting a 'something's screwed' vibe from all of this?_"

"Roger that," agreed Dyson with her husband, mostly because it made sense to her. Her main camera only showed what her optics were picking up, and the forest seemed a haunting place in the midst of all that darkness. She cycled back through to low-light, which bathed the picture in a green tableau that did little to ease her own misgivings.

"_Now don't you go chickenshit on me, Lieutenant_," said Cramer. "_We're gonna go in there and kick their asses, Minovsky interference or not. Lieutenant Wippler's First Platoon'll take point, Second and Third Platoons on the flanks in a wing formation, Lieutenant Missus Dyson'll take command of Third while Lieutenant Kagan stays behind with the big gun suits to give fire support. First and Fourth Platoon's command trucks'll drop seismophones and give the heads-ups to the arty suits. Fourth's other suits'll follow us up as reserve and cover our asses. Move into the forest slow and steady, and if you and yours see anything with a mono-eye and spikes, you give 'em two in the chest and one in the head. You gettin' me, killers?_"

"_Copy that, Legion One_," came Lief's voice, while the others nodded.

"Sir, I really don't like this plan," said Dyson hesitantly. With the artillery suits staying behind with the two command hovertrucks, five suits including Cramer's would be remaining behind, and the rest of them would essentially be marching in formation over open ground towards a visual wall they could not see through, under a communications vacuum they could not speak through without physically _touching_ one another and with no way to call in fire support, and relying solely on the hovertrucks' seismographs to vector in the arty support, and that was _provided_ the Zeeks actually _moved_. "It's too dependant on the Zeon doing what we expect them to do. I think we should send one platoon in to reconnoiter while the rest hold back, then hit the Zeeks when they come out to fight us. They're blind, too."

"_You think that, do you, Ex-Oh? Well, Lieutenant Dyson, what_ I _think is that while we're standing here with our dicks in our hands, them Zeeks're making a break for it out the far side of these woods to go cause mischief someplace else and avoid the ass-whuppin' the Federation is about to bestow upon them. Now, I don't appreciate the idea of nickel-and-diming these assholes with probing attacks, so we're gonna hit 'em hard and with all we've got, right now. But you keep on coming up with these ideas, darlin', and one of these days the world'll let us play nice, okay?_"

Dyson gritted her teeth at the blatant condescension in Cramer's tone. Surreptitiously, she flicked the fingers of her GM Kai's hand to the side as a signal to Lief, who looked like he was going to cave in Cramer's Guncannon Heavyarms' head with the butt of his 90mm from behind. "Aye, I get you, sir."

"_Anyone else have any objections to the plan of attack?_"

There were no more objections, the Company XO having failed to convince Cramer otherwise. "_All righty, then_," continued Cramer, "_Missus Dyson, take Third Platoon and cover First's right flank. You're Century Three now. Century One, you know what to do. Everyone's following your lead, Wippler. Do me proud, boy._"

The six suits disconnected their comm leads from the command hovertrucks and went to pass the word on to their people. Reluctantly, Dyson strode her GM Kai over to Third Platoon's muster area to chat with her four new soldiers about their mission specifics.

**__**

Garuda-class transport _Dauphin_, **over Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe**

November 14, 0087

"_----ow light-----range three hu------over us, cont----------utes------_"

Titans Major Golan Tizard's attention was divided in two, a state of mind his organized and precise intellect disliked having to succumb to. One the one hand, he was in the middle of filling in the rest of his officers on why the 54th "Massachusetts" Titans Tactical Armored Brigade was split up into its component companies; on the other hand, the _Garuda_'s communications suite was monitoring the progress of Cramer's 103rd via radio band scanner, and was piping it through the bridge-wide intercom. Now, it seemed, the radio link was being subjected to unacceptable levels of interference.

"To answer your question, Captain," said Tizard to the assembled officers but mostly to Sajer, whose face was illuminated evilly by the fluorescent lighting of the map of northern Germany and the Low Countries on the big table, "the 54th has become like a hand sifting at the bottom of a lake for something precious. Each of the companies," he indicated their positions with a red pointer, "is like a finger, while the hand is stretched open. However, take note of the equidistance between each of the companies, and also of their distances to the area of Steinbaum, where our prey lives and lurks."

"What about them?" snapped Sajer. "If we've got all of this, why are we waiting for that chucklefuck Cramer to waste his collection of weaklings on the 10th? Why don't we just go in there and burn everything in that forest to the ground?"

"Think about it, Mister Sajer. Which is more advantageous to our psychological war against von Mellenthin? A full-on blitz into territory the enemy knows and controls, where they are prepared for us, or an enemy that believes it has already won that fight and comes out of their hole and into our hand?"

"Psychology. . ._ratshit_!" Sajer's face went hostile at the thought. "This is a waste of _time_, sir! We have the guns, let's just go kill them now!"

"Figures," said Lt. Holt from Tizard's right, fastidiously checking his fingernails in an unconscious parroting of Tizard's own habit. "We didn't expect you to get it in one, _Captain_."

Tizard cut Sajer off before he could respond to Holt's snide remark. "That's enough of that childish drivel, both of you. Mister Sajer, the Steinbaum battle is a giant mousetrap, one that I much prefer Cramer step into and set off instead of _my_ people. We are Titans, and therefore elite and unexpendable. Cramer and his people are the mere scum of the Earth, and destined to die gloriously fulfilling their cannon fodder roles. When the Zeon mousetrap snaps down on their necks, the fingers of the Titans," he waved his hand over the map, stopping it over Steinbaum, "will close into a fist." Tizard's own hand closed into a fist as an example. "Then we will crush the life from the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ Division and be home in Lyons in time for brunch. If you'll excuse me for a moment; would you take over, Mister Volkyr? I must attend to something."

Tizard strode away from the table and up a set of stairs, maneuvering around the _Dauphin's_ crew members towards the communications station. The only sound that was coming in from the intercom speakers now was static.

"Why are we not receiving anything except a platoon's worth of suits and two trucks?" asked Tizard as he leaned over the communications officer's chair to point at the console.

"Some sort of interference from the ground, sir. Nothing we can do."

Tizard's pale eyes narrowed dangerously. "What sort of 'interference', Lieutenant?"

The Lieutenant shrugged offhandedly. "Could be anything from standard EM jamming to Minovsky rads, sir. Whatever it is, it's blanked out everything, all spectrums and frequencies, within its range. The only reason we're getting anything at all is because those are the units not underneath the jamming coverage. We aren't even getting a radar read from that area, so I'd say it's Minovsky particles, very dense and very constant."

"No way to get a read on the rest of the 103rd? No way at all?"

The pilot turned around in his seat towards the conversing officers. "I could combat drop this bird right on top of them if you'd like, sir."

Tizard was in no mood for pithy commentary. He had been counting on his ability to overhear the fate of the 103rd to assist him in judging the tactics and abilities of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ before having to close the five fingers of his fist around the Zeon heart and squeeze it to death. He knew their suits, and he knew their leadership, but he did not know the _enemy_, and that was a big no-no in the Tizard Book of Battle Tricks. Cramer's people were supposed to be the dowsing rod he would use to divine the mind of von Mellenthin, but he would learn nothing if this dreadful silence continued.

He debated for a moment, even as his head turned to face the Garuda's pilot. To send in his own people early or not? Minovsky radiation was a two-edged sword, and within its demesne anything was possible. Tizard had studied the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ enough to know that even with his massive numerical superiority, they would fight with anything and everything to deal as much damage to his forces as he did unto them. Every loss the 54th TTAB took was one less unit he would have available to put out the next fire that came to life in Europe. He had relinquished control of so many assets in this year alone that the loss of any more of his people, even in combat, was a hateful thought to the Major, as hateful as knowing that the rest of his Brigade was busily getting fat and lazy in the Philippines chasing ghosts and shadows and indulging in copious amounts of intimate and carnal contact with the indigenous population of the island archipelago.

The 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ was a tool, one that Tizard would gladly use to show the rest of the Titans what it would take to bring order from chaos. He would not spend months chasing Zeon leftovers all over Europe the way the _Dorcetshire_ and the _Damascus_ task forces had vainly pursued their AEUG quarries in space. With Axis looming on the horizon, lurking like a vulture between Luna and LaGrange point 3 near Sides 2 and 5, he was the only farsighted one enough to see what was coming, alliance or no.

The fate of the 103rd MI would settle the question in Tizard's mind as to whether or not his plan was the dream of his own ego or a sound tactical military decision. But that was not up to Tizard, no matter how strongly he wished it; the whole plan hinged on von Mellenthin and what _he_ would do, both during and after the battle with the 103rd.

"No," he shook his head, not blinking as he stared at the pilot, "that won't be necessary. Just get us to Brunswick."

"You got it, sir." The pilot turned back to his controls, eyes glancing out the windows at a Saberfish fighter as it skirted past the massive combat transport in its air patrol screen flight pattern.

Tizard looked down at the radioman once more, then clapped a hand on his shoulder and turned, walking back to the map table in the immense bridge structure, face calm but mind in turmoil.

****

Nijmegen, Netherlands, Central Europe

November 14, 0087

"Commander Stilwell?" called out the hydrophone operator. "I've got something."

Stilwell grabbed his field glasses and shoved his eyes into the viewing receptacles, staring down the river into the darkness, searching for something. "What've you got?"

"It's big, whatever it is. Coming in at twenty knots, twin screws. Sounds like a barge, at least a thousand-tonner."

The radio operator, who was also the loader, chimed in from the inside of "Ol' Beastly" below Stilwell. "Harbor control reports that all authorized traffic is clear. This one's not legit, and it's not responding to hails on any frequency."

A black shape was in the view of Stilwell's glasses, looming like a mountain as it approached on its watery road. "Distance?" yelled Stilwell.

"Six klicks and closing. It'll be here in four minutes."

"This is it! Get on the horn to everybody and tell them to lock and load! The Zeeks are here, so let's give 'em Hell!"

The radioman started yelling into his transceiver while popping open the ammo door release lever with a knee. Outside, the six TGM-79 GM Trainers slammed 100mm magazines into their weapons and ratcheted rounds into their chambers. The six guys operating the makeshift ASROC were manhandling a shallow-fin torpedo into the launch tube.

The radioman finished his call, then shoved a 120mm APFSDS-T antitank round into the breech as Stilwell clambered into the commander's cupola and behind the .50 caliber machine gun. "Hydrophone!! Keep me posted!" he barked.

One of the two jeeps screeched up next to the Leopard II tank. The student on the 20mm Gatling gun cupped a hand over his mouth and hollered: "We still can't raise them on the radio, sir! Forward observation says it's the _Duisberg_!"

Stilwell stuck his head up from the cupola. "What about those suits?!"

"No word, sir!"

"Get to your position, then! Anything with one eye sticks its head up, blast him!"

"Aye, aye, _sir_!!" The gunner kicked the rollbar with a boot, and the jeep tore out of the area at breakneck speed.

"Hydrophone! What've we got?"

"Just one ship, sir! No other contacts!"

That worried Stilwell. "This thing's gotta be on proximity or timed-delay fuse! Range to target?"

"Four kilometers! Speed and bearing constant!"

He ducked his head into the cupola again. "Patch me through to the maritime frequency, quick. Run it through the loudspeaker, too."

"You're up, sir!"

Stilwell cleared his throat, covering the mouthpiece of his helmet comm with his hand before speaking: "**Zeon soldiers of the 10th Mobile Armored Division! We see your ship and are prepared to do whatever is necessary to defend Nijmegen from you! Heave to and surrender, or we will open fire!**" Stilwell repeated the command in Dutch and in German. There was no response from the silent ship. They waited another two minutes to the sounds of their own heartbeats and the throbbing of the engine of the Leopard II.

On the visible horizon, a blacker spot than the river and the sky came into focus, looming like a moving hole in the world. Searchlights arrayed along the riverbanks flashed to life, illuminating the bulk of _RMS Duisberg_ as it cruised at its speed along the Waal, ignorant of what lay before it.

"I've given them warning enough," muttered Stilwell. Best just to take care of this nonsense right now. "All right, men! Commence fire, fire at will!"

The order was relayed through "Ol' Beastly"'s ancient communications rig and down the chain of radio stations. The gunner of the venerable Leopard II mashed his face to the targeting scope and pressed the trigger.

The thunderous, rumbling _whump_ as the 120mm cannon of the tank fired for the first time since 2020 AD was a better signal than any flare could give. The APFSDS-T armor-piercer struck _Duisberg_ in the conning tower, blasting through the barge's superstructure and out the other end, tatters of civilian freighter trailing behind the penetrator as it burst out the far end of the ship.

The TGM-79s' 100mm autocannons began their crescendo, spraying shells at high volume at the incoming 1000-ton draft barge. The twenty-knot speed of _Duisberg_ came to an abrupt stop as a fusillade of high-velocity lead smashed into its bow and across its deck, ripping great holes in the ship and shredding its hull in their fury. The ASROC launcher spat its torpedo into the Waal, the hydro-missile vanishing into the deep river with a splash, even as the ASROC's crew grabbed another fish and began to wrestle it into position. The 20mm chain guns on the jeep hosed the ship as it passed them, pieces of _Duisberg_ flaying away from the ship into the river to be swept away in the relentless current.

__

Duisberg, for all its impressive size, was not a warship, and was therefore easy prey for the incoming hot rounds that the Federation blazed into and through it. The ship was not being hampered much, but only because the skin of its hull, with the exception of the IMO-rated pressure hull lining its hold, was so thin that the HE rounds the GM Trainers pumped into the great ship simply chopped through the barge instead of encountering anything worth detonating against.

The 120mm tank gun fired again, and then again, adding its basso to the trebles of the GM Trainers' faster-rate-of-fire hellspitters. _Duisberg_ hove to port, its bulk slipping sideways as a round struck her boilers and the momentum of the barrage of warshots dragged it off course. To Stilwell, it looked like a train that derailed and was jackknifing itself to a stop, even as it disintegrated under the onslaught. Then the torpedo hit the port bow.

A brilliant flash of light and a roiling fireball erupted from the foredeck, followed very shortly by a thunderclap as the concussive wave reached the ears of "Stilwell's Irregulars". A geyser of river water sprayed into the sky on the heels of the noise. The GM Trainers finished off their clips, then paused to rearm as the big barge simply buckled and broke, the torpedo flooding her engine room as the ship's keel cracked in half. _Duisberg_ had arrived at her final resting place.

"**CEASE FIRE!!**" called Stilwell over the loudspeakers, letting go a breath he did not know he was holding through the ordeal. The distant chatter of the 20mm guns came to a stop immediately. For a long moment, everyone just stared at the burning hulk that was _RMS Duisberg_, waiting for the great cataclysm that would accompany a phosphorus bomb once the open air reacted with its explosive chemical element. Nothing. The ship made hideous creaking noises as it settled to the bottom of the Waal, conning tower still visible above water, Swiss-cheesed by the jury-rigged firepower of the Nijmegen Academy of Armored Warfare.

The cheering swelled behind and around them with all the silent surprise of a sudden spring rain shower, replacing the ringing in their ears of the noise of a lot of big guns firing at the same time. Stilwell turned to see residents of the city atop their roofs and their balconies, in the streets and on their cars, proclaiming their joy at the victory of those who would defend them. The mood was infectious, as the students of the Academy shook hands, gave high-fives, hugged, and raised fists and weapons into the air in celebration. The cheering became a torrent of noise and festivity as _Duisberg_ smoldered, impotent.

The only one not smiling was Stilwell himself, standing with his tank crew atop the turret of "Ol' Beastly", gun barrel warm from its workout but not overly stressed by today's little spectacle. No, Jackson Stilwell, Academy Commandant of Nijmegen, was not cheering at all. He was not even smiling. His boat was a dud, or worse, nothing at all. Only a salvage crew would be able to tell, but in Stilwell's mind, he _knew_ they had just been suckered.

"Where _are_ they?"

****

Steinbaum, Niedersachsen, Central Europe

November 14, 0087

Oblivious to what lay beneath them, the mobile suits of the 103rd strode towards the treeline where the _Teutobergerwald_ began its meandering growth northwest. Spotlights were activated on the lead platoon, giving the spotters a little light to see by; the rest ran on low-light vision or IR. The Minovsky coverage disallowed everything else, which was why the Zeon were using it as a weapon. The Federation just did not know that part, yet.

Lucien McKenna had done a lot of things in his time as a Zeon soldier, and then even before. The Marine was a natural with all things technical, and was usually the person everyone looked to play engineer whenever they had a problem. In 0084, von Seydlitz had come to him with a problem and told him in no uncertain terms to fix it. That problem was Minovsky radiation and its effects in combat. The solution lay underneath the ground being trampled by the 103rd Mobile Infantry Company, in the form of Hall Effect probe-enhanced Gaussmeter lines.

Minovsky rads had been a facet of mobile warfare since the invention of the fusion engine. It was what had brought high-tech warfare back into the close-combat arena; without the advanced targeting systems and the ability to see the enemy long before they saw you with the simple sweep of a radar, there was no such thing as distance combat with any form of effectiveness. Minovsky radiation was a two-edged sword that harmed both friend and foe alike, rendering them blind except at short range; or worse, melee, where most mobile suit pilots did not like being. Lack of reliable communications was a real pain, too, since one needed to talk to both their teammates and their command structure to receive orders to carry out. Minovsky radiation made such things a haphazard prospect at best.

McKenna had not needed to ask _why_ von Seydlitz was looking for a way around Minovsky particle interference. That was obvious to anyone who had fought in a war: if you can see the enemy and they cannot see you, you own them. The real trick was making it happen when physics said you could not. McKenna admitted that immediately to his superior, whose response could be summed up as "Fuck physics; make the bitch work." So, Lucien McKenna racked his brain for a year and a half to contrive a way of skirting around Minovsky radiation effects in friendly units while still punishing the enemy. His solution came from the kitchen door late one night in 0086 when he was rummaging for munchies while repairing one of the trains in the salt mine.

Metals are magnetic; some weakly, others very strongly. This same magnetism was present in high-tensile steel, in Luna Titanium, and in Gundarium, which meant it was present in the skin and armor and components of modern warfare vehicles. The device used to determine the level of magnetism in an area is a Gaussmeter. McKenna concluded that a mobile suit in or around an area of empty earth would register as having a higher magnetic reading than the surrounding environment, thus projecting (via a MagLab capable of isolating and reading the Gaussmeter's findings) a stable, precise location in spite of the Minovsky radiation; the Gaussmeter was hardwired into the MagLab, not transmitted via radio waves. A larger magnetic presence, like a mobile suit, walking over an area where a Gaussmeter lay would automatically spike the Hall probe's reading, sending the data to the MagLab, where it would be duly registered as being insanely different than the surrounding landscape's relatively tiny magnetic reading.

Communications over distance in a Minovsky field were bypassed using tin cans with copper wire strung between them, like childrens' old play phones, so easy it was enough to make you cry (though you had to be immobile to use them). Enough Gaussmeters (with the addition of Hall Effect probes for maximum sensitivity), arrayed in one-meter by one-meter squares, formed a perfect coordinate grid for indirect artillery bombardment or direct line-of-sight fire acquisition.

McKenna had not had the opportunity to test his idea until this moment, but as the Foxe twins called out to the suit drivers the precise locations and bearings of each of their first targets, he knew it was effective enough to do the job. The psychological blow alone would have been worth it: a Zeon mobile suit unit, immune to Minovsky radiation, would devastate any force sent against it. The impossible had been cast aside in the face of unswerving evidence, and the effect the news would have across Earth and Space would be the functional equivalent of the "Brown Sound". McKenna had every intention of applying this field discovery into mobile warfare somehow; it would just be a matter of rigging a Gaussmeter as a form of long-range beacon or sonar, perhaps. But the first to taste the pain would be the sad souls sent to die here, who did not have a clue.

"_Quebec-Quebec One-Fiver, moving at eleven-oh-five degrees northwest_," said Bryce Foxe's almost-lonely sounding voice in de la Somme's can marked 'Katzenjammer Kidz'.

De la Somme splattered a garish orange dot on a corresponding coordinate point on the red grid displayed on his TacCom map. That was his mark, one of the Federation suits coming up on the left flank of the Zeon position. That was the last one to be plotted, since de la Somme was sitting on the anchor point of the left flank, and the rest of the 10th's people already had their targets.

The diminutive ace flexed his chilled fingers, popped his knuckles, and tossed his cans out of the hatchway, their presence no longer necessary. He then buttoned his uniform overjacket over his latest T-shirt, a little ditty he had picked up while visiting Talos Bunch a while ago. It displayed a cartoonish picture of a red devil with horns and a pitchfork, grinning out at the audience while spearing a hamburger on the tines of the trident-like tool. The caption above the devil read: _Purgatory Bar & Grill_; a smaller caption beneath that read: _Gnash while you wait!!_ The armored cockpit hatch closed, encasing him and his slumbering passenger in almost total darkness. The main camera clicked on, and the low-light viewscreen displayed almost nothing of consequence.

But that did not matter in the slightest.

In the tin can of Karl Weissdrake's _Command_ _Gelgoog _, von Mellenthin's voice simply said: "_Now_."

"Let them fly, boys," said Weissdrake into a cluster of cans near his right knee. At his command, his _Gelgoog _ chucked a white-striped grenade on a painstakingly- and precisely-calculated aerial course through the trees to just the edge of the forest. Seven others just like it arced towards their own destinations.

On impact, the grenades burst not with an explosion but more of a release of contained pressure, and great plumes of white smoke billowed out of their casings. Five metric tons of white phosphorus could make a very powerful smoke grenade.

This piece of the idea had been von Seydlitz's, something he had bumped across when studying 20th Century armored warfare that utilized tanks. In an era without Minovsky radiation, with rockets that could track on enemy ECM jamming, satellites that could track single targets on the ground from orbit, and when infantry were regularly equipped with IR goggles and low-light scopes for operations in all hours of the day or night, tanks still used smoke grenade dispensers on the battlefield to hide their movements from enemy spotters. Von Seydlitz had pored over texts and documents and accounts from sources that ranged across the globe, supplementing his findings with his own razor intellect and almost eidetic memory bank for all things _militaire_, and had uncovered a little-known variant on the crude cloaking technique. This was why he had been adamant in which chemical he had wanted in bulk when developing his mobile suit-sized smoke grenades.

The Minovsky interference would hide the Zeon from radar and help a little bit with the heat signatures from infra-red scopes. The lack of lights would hide them from low-light vision. The night, the camouflage, and the trees would hide them from most visual forms of recognition. These were fine and dandy, but von Seydlitz was looking for something a little more final in his work to reduce the 103rd into mewling, helpless prey; thus, the smoke grenades. _They_ would not only hide the Zeon from sight totally and completely (all while not interfering with the Gaussmeter grid that dutifully would report enemy location on the grid through magnetic resonance signatures), but the particular variant of smoke von Seydlitz was using would also completely negate the enemy's use of IR spectrum target acquisition by hiding the Zeon heat signatures.

The variant was called plastic white phosphorus, and it was very, very effective.

Striding up the hillock, behind First Platoon, in her GM Kai, Dyson blinked as her screen filled with a. . .a _nothingness_ that had not been there before. Sure, it was dark out, and sure, even low-light was not helping much, but now there was nothing but blackness, as though she had just stepped into a hole. She swung her main camera towards her three platoon-mates, and they were still visible, but it looked like wisps of blackness were reaching out, as though the forest itself was exuding tendrils of its own emptiness.

Her first thought was to call this in, but that would have been dumb. The Minovsky cloud was all around them now, and even good intentions could not pierce it. She knew that prior to her sudden blindness, the rangefinder had read less than 100 meters to the treeline, and it would obviously still be there if she kept moving forward. Instead, she called a halt by raising her GM Kai's fist into the air, arm raised ninety degrees at the elbow. The Federation used a lot of hand signals in places of ultra-dense Minovsky rads. Third Platoon, not used to having the Company XO as their direct commanding officer, immediately stopped in their tracks.

She noticed that First and Second Platoons had also come to a standstill. Spreading the fingers of her upraised fist, then closing them again, she signaled for a powwow with the Platoon commanders. Then she made a circling motion with the GM's wrist, telling the other suits to set up a defensive perimeter while the bosses chatted.

Lief reached her first, putting his GM Command's free hand into one of hers to initiate skin talk. "_You seein' what I'm seein'_?" he asked her, as Wippler and Flavell also touched her suit to join in.

"Yeah, I do. Any idea?"

"_Smoke. but not like any I've ever seen before_," replied Flavell coolly, as though she walked through mists every day.

"Explain."

Flavell's voice was almost chiding. "_Check your IR, Ex-Oh Dyson. You'll see what I mean._"

Cycling her camera to infra-red, she was almost blinded by the screen's shift from total darkness to a blazing riot of color. Aghast, she cycled back to standard visual hurriedly. "What the _fuck_--?" she said before she could catch herself.

Wippler, who was almost never nervous, was nervous now. "_Please tell me it's not a forest fire, that the damn Zeeks haven't led us into an inferno_!"

"If it was a fire, we'd smell it," said Dyson, mad at Wippler the veteran for voicing her own concern to their greenhorn colleagues. "So if it's not a fire, then what is it?"

Down the hillock, with the two hovertrucks and the rest of the heavy artillery suits, Herschel Cramer was voicing the same thing: "So if it ain't a fire, what the hell is it?"

Kagan had his hatch open, trying to pick it out with the scant lighting. "It looks like smoke, sir, just white smoke. It doesn't seem to be hurting the suits, but. . ." he trailed off and jumped back into his GM Cannon II to use the magnification option on his main camera. "Sir, the ground beneath Lieutenant Dyson's unit is turning black."

Cramer zoomed in on the feet of the mobile suits. "That ain't the ground, dumbshit, it's the _grass_ turning black. That smoke is killin' it. Greeley, get up there and tell Dyson to haul her ass back here right quick."

"_Aye, Captain._" The RX-77D Guncannon Mass Production-type headed up the hill at a trot.

One of the hovertrucks reported in. "_Still no sign of seismic activity except for our people, sir._"

Cramer chewed idly on a thumbnail, a nervous habit he had never managed to rid himself of. _Maybe I shoulda brought them choppers after all. . ._

Wippler's voice was dripping with scorn. "_Here comes the cavalry, Ell-Tee._"

Dyson turned her GM Kai around to see the Guncannon belonging to Ensign Greeley of Kagan's (now _her_) Third Platoon running ponderously towards them. To her right, the sun was rising, starting to cast a dim light over everything "Great. Mother Hen wants a sitrep."

Lief's voice buzzed in her ear. "_Doubt it. He's probably coming to let us know that we should draw straws to see which of us gets to pop hatch and take a whiff of this stuff._"

"Are you volunteering, Lieutenant Dyson?"

"_Ladies first, Lieutenant Dyson_."

"_Isn't that sweet?_" remarked Flavell to Wippler, who just groaned.

Greeley thumped up to them and initiated skin talk. "_Ma'am, Captain Cramer wants your people to pull back until we can ID this gunk._"

Dyson was just about to respond when her suit shuddered around her, and then there was a sound like the Hammer of God striking the steel of the world.

The first shot fired into the Federation suits was by Dietrich von Mellenthin himself, the 280mm shell from his _Zaku's_ bazooka tearing its way into the innards of one of First Platoon's GM IIs, ripping the suit in half in the explosion. Of course, he himself could not witness its destruction; the target to him was a painted blip on his TacCom, not something in his viewscreen, though the white smoke flashed brightly at the impact of the shell.

One by one, bolts of energy and high-velocity lead commenced fire on the Federation mobile suits, all of whom were on open ground and stationary. Von Mellenthin had chosen the placement of his suits well. As long as the Federation stood there, they were right in the crosshairs of a crescent-shaped _Pakfront_, blind as bats and as dead as doornails.

Five suits went down in the first volley. Five more went down in the second. None of them had fired off a shot, and three seconds had elapsed. Dyson spun her GM Kai around, trying to identify targets, but there was nothing, just nothing but incoming fire and the death cries of her Company-mates.

Lief's 90mm stuttered in his GM Command's hands, spraying in the direction of the treeline, not certain if he was hitting anything. He had interposed his suit between the trees and his wife's suit deliberately. She snapped out of the shock of the moment and brought her own 90mm into the fight.

Flavell's GM Quell staggered as a bright beam of mega-particle energy severed the left arm of her suit, dropping her beam rifle. Quick as a cat, she reached back with her right arm to snag her 90mm, and a volley of shells cut the GM Quell down. The titanium armor held up against the barrage of smaller caliber warshots, but Dyson watched in fascinated dismay as something in the darkness of the forest came to brilliant light as another bolt of mega-particles scythed through the GM Quell's torso, cutting diagonally across the cockpit.

One of the other damaged GM Kais appeared from the depths of the mist, riddled with bullet holes, but it was still up, one of Second Platoon's suits, unleashing all Hell into the smoke in front of it. Then the suit gave a terrible jerk, as though something had clubbed it, and the haze flashed into brilliance around the stricken suit, that went limp after a few seconds.

Lief's GM Command's back bumped into her suit. "_FALL BACK!_" he roared, blasting away at the area in front of the downed GM Kai in a fury. The limp GM Kai fell onto its face. Too stunned by the uncanny accuracy of the enemy's fire when they were blind and practically mute, she complied, 90mm chattering back into the darkness.

Greeley's Guncannon's twin 200mm guns poured volley after volley into the treeline, the smoke swirling around the trails of his shots. An ancient RGM-79[E] GM and a more modern GM II were covering him, even as the Dysons moved away faster than the other three suits were.

Cramer took longer to recover than Dyson did. One minute, he had fifteen suits standing in that damnable smoke. The next, he had five, all coming back down as a hail of Zeon gunfire tore apart the earth or scorched the air around them, and it was only dumb luck they were missing.

"GIMME TARGETS!!" he screamed into the commlink at the hovertrucks.

"_WE GOT NOTHING!_" came the panicked reply.

"That's does it, then," he hissed. "ALL SUITS, OPEN FIRE!! TARGET MUZZLE FLASHES AND ANYTHING ELSE THAT AIN'T OURS!" He depressed the triggers on his Guncannon Heavyarms's firing sticks, and the big suit's twin 240mm cannons and its 60mm Vulcan spat death into the mists, punctuated by shots from the handheld beam rifle in the suit's hands. Phosphorus tracer ammunition began to stretch over the battlefield, coming in both direction.

The other artillery suits began dumping firepower into the smoke as well. The two GM Cannons blazed away at the nothingness, but were too terrified of hitting one of their own in the haze to just fire randomly. Cramer did not seem to care either way.

Wippler's GM Custom rocketed up into the air and out of the smoke, missing a leg, trying to jump out of the smoke, which was starting to dissipate. Cramer watched in awe as a Zeon _Gelgoog Jaeger_ burst up behind the fleeing GM Custom and tackled it in midair, dragging it down like a beast that had caught a choice piece of prey. A second _Gelgoog Jaeger_ followed the struggling suits back down, beam machinegun at the ready to finish off Wippler's suit. They had fallen back into the smoke before anyone could even get a shot off to help the GM Custom.

Movement to his right brought Cramer away from the carnage, as a _Dom Tropen_ skirted around from the flank and lobbed a grenade at the clustered artillery suits and hovertrucks (whose crews were struggling to unhook their comm leads from the suits and get moving). The grenade burst, knocking a GM Cannon down and upending one of the hovertrucks. Cramer's beam rifle jabbed out and fired at the speedy _Dom Tropen_, impaling the Zeon suit before it could escape back into the treeline. It crumpled and pancaked into the earth.

Antares de la Somme was on a high, but at the sight of Nolan Kerr's _Dom Tropen_ cut down by one of the Federation artillery suits, he went berserk. For him, the GM Quell he had already racked up into his kill record was now just an appetizer; now the whole buffet would die. Not five minutes ago, he had been teasing Kerr; now he would be burying him. Tears came unbidden, as they always had, but these burned more than relieved. Kerr was _his_ man, _his_ soldier! He had lost so many of them, but it never got easier, and now someone had to pay for that soul being taken from de la Somme's world, where it would not laugh again. 

Erik held on for dear life as the ace shrieked his rage at the world and burst from the devastated treeline, flinging his suit at the Federation. There were three targets for him to choose from, but he knew that de la Somme would want them all. His own mind was a turmoil, as the Commonality recoiled from the horror of losing one of its own members. Now they were but seven.

The Dysons had returned by this point, still firing at ghosts in the smoke, which was clearing rapidly enough for them to start seeing targets. The two GM IIs and the Guncannon were still up there, dumping tremendous amounts of ammunition into the area around them, backs to each other now. Cramer watched in horror as a Packard-type _Gouf_ sprinted in out of nowhere, leapt into the air _over_ the incoming fire from the Federation suits and then over the suits themselves, and landed in the middle of them with a flourish. Spinning on its heel, the _Gouf_ slashed all three of the Federation suits across their backs in a single stroke with a heat saber. The Guncannon staggered but kept itself upright just long enough to trigger a burst of fire into the ground as a _Kaempfer_ blew it backwards with a sturmfaust. The two GM IIs fell to their knees as their leg actuators separated from their pelvic actuators, like puppets whose strings had been cut. But they were not out of the fight yet, as one of them managed to turn and sink three or four 90mm rounds into the _Kaempfer_ before the _Gouf_ cut its arm off at the elbow, then planted its 75mm Gatling cannon on the back of the skull of the other GM II and burst the head of the suit apart like a melon under a sledgehammer. Then the _Gouf_ picked up the GM II's severed arm with its weapon and pulled its trigger, firing back into the woods once, before dropping it and moving on.

Another suit crashed into Cramer's Guncannon Heavyarms, knocking the suit to the ground. It impacted with a thud that almost made him bite through his own tongue. His main camera saw only dirt, but his secondaries saw Kagan's GM Cannon II cross beam sabers with a monstrous _Gelgoog Marine Commander_ before they moved away. A _Kaempfer_, a different one from the one that had been damaged, kicked over the other hovertruck, trapping the crew inside, before triggering its shotgun and shredding the innards of the vehicle.

And Cramer came to the sinking realization that while he and his had been blind, the Zeon had not been.

Vladimir Margul was not the kind of person to overly care about those underneath his authority, but the {apparently} stray 90mm round that had drilled its way into Private Derek Reiter's _Kaempfer_'s cockpit from out of the blue made him want to claw thing apart. One second, the enlisted man who had been a 'Grimraver' since the Lorelei drop in 0079 was there right beside his own _Kaempfer_, and then he was dead, his suit just standing there, useless. Margul also saw Lacerta's _Kaempfer_ take serious damage to its torso from the stupid GM that de la Somme had failed to kill in one strike. Within the Minovsky field, Margul could not even call to check on Lacerta, having to trust that the Sergeant was okay even though he had caught a full burst and the _Kaempfer_ was not designed to take that kind of damage.

As 'Demon' Margul watched in mute horror, the stricken _Kaempfer_ took a couple of stumble-steps forward and away, like a punch-drunk boxer, before finally falling to the ground to lie still near the wreckage of a downed GM Kai. One of the Foxe twins' _Gelgoog Jaeger_ slid up to the lifeless _Kaempfer_, using it as cover briefly to snap off a shot from its beam machinegun, before kicking thrusters on and leaping deeper into the fray.

Margul took that piece of advice to heart, and flung his own machine into the fight, using the quick _Kaempfer_ to skirt through the battlefield, seeking prey to appease the deaths of his two 2nd Shock members.

It would occur to him later that if Reiter had not been standing where he was, that 90mm round would have killed him instead.

Dyson's hair fell into her eyes, sticking to her forehead with sweat. This was unreal, and impossible, even as she blazed away at the shield of a _Gelgoog Cannon_, keeping it from acquiring its aim at a target. Lief was beside her, as always, covering her flanks, with a new 90mm machinecannon to replace the one that had been shot out of his hand by a beam machinegun burst. This was an out-and-out horsefuck, and most of the company was already down for the count. Dyson counted four suits still capable of fighting, and only one enemy suit burning on the ground (looked like a _Dom_). They had to get the hell out of here, and now.

She saw Cramer's suit get knocked down, at about the same time that poor melee-deficient Kagan's GM Cannon II got diced by the double-bladed beam saber of the _Gelgoog _ he was fighting and fall apart into wreckage. Had she been trying to concentrate on her emotions at this moment, she could not have differentiated between anger and sorrow at this terrible scene she found herself playing a role in.

They had passed outside the Minovsky umbrella, and she heard Lief yell in panic over the radio. Spinning around, she saw him blasting at an incoming _Gouf Custom_ that was barreling straight for them, but it was weaving in and out in a zig-zag pattern, and sharpshooter Lief was hitting nothing but air and earth as it closed in on them. In a moment of clarity, she saw the sigil on the right breast of the _Gouf_, even as it flicked its e-whip out ahead of itself by several dozen meters and plucked the 90mm right out of Lief's suit's hands.

__

White star and sword. . .white STAR and SWORD. . .WHITE STAR AND SWORD!!! 'KILLING STAR'!!! NO!

She shoved her 90mm into Lief's GM Command's hands and unleashed her beam saber, intercepting the _Gouf_ while shoving Lief's GM Command behind her GM Kai. She had read about this guy in the post-War briefing they had all received from Cramer at Kassel about the 10th, and knew that she was dead, and Lief was dead, and they were all dead if this ace got past them. How he was alive was unimportant, though she was hornswaggled to figure out how Intel could have missed the presence of Zeon Commander Antares de la Somme for so long. She slashed at the _Gouf_, then followed it up with a stab, managing to sever a piece of the Zeon suit's shield but not hitting anything else. The 'Killing Star' was good, better than even the books had said he was, and he was adept enough to not even try to parry the beam saber with his own heat saber. She sprayed 60mm Vulcan fire at him, trying to hold him back, but he interposed an ancient oak between them and the rounds splintered the tree's trunk, which the _Gouf_ promptly pushed in her direction, then darted around to come at the right flank. She chopped the tree into flaming cinders with her saber and maneuvered to keep herself between Lief and de la Somme, but it was a battle she might lose. Her GM Kai had better acceleration than the specialized ground suit, but it was not as agile as the _Gouf_, and the _Gouf_'s design was perfected for close-quarters combat.

As she spun around and tried to cut off the amazingly nimble ace's suit, her eye caught something in her main viewscreen, and it seemed so out of place that her conscious mind actually took its eyes away from her fight to watch as a single _Zaku High-Mobility type_ casually walked out of the trees and the remains of the smoke and through the battlefield, stepping gingerly around the crippled and destroyed mobile suits in its slow and relentless advance. It had a pair of 90mm machinecannons in its hands, the ubiquitous MMP-80, and it was heading right for Cramer's Guncannon Heavyarms, which was clambering to its feet and did not appear to have noticed the approach of the Zaku even as the artillery suit sprayed 60mm Vulcan rounds at the _Gelgoog Marine Commander_ that had killed Kagan's GM Cannon II. As the _Gelgoog _ withdrew, almost in reverence it seemed to Dyson at the time, Cramer's Guncannon turned to face the _Zaku_, which calmly and smoothly brought up both MMP-80s and pulled both triggers.

The twin licks of flame and lead that spat from the giant machineguns blew both the Guncannon's 240mm shoulder guns from their moorings, rocking the suit back. The _Zaku_ lowered the guns slightly and fired again, stitching shots across the elbow and wrist assemblies of the red-and-gold suit, staggering it further. The guns lowered again and roared, the rounds splitting the armor and internals of the Guncannon's knees and lower legs open, and Cramer's suit collapsed in a heap. A single round into the cockpit finished that fight. In the fire of its guns, she knew that the _Zaku_ was von Mellenthin himself.

Almost unconsciously, Dyson cut at the _Gouf_ as it sidled past her, bulling her GM Kai aside as it went straight for Lief's GM Command, e-whip snaking past his shield and attaching to the 90mm machinecannon again, then yanking it out of Lief's hands. That was when it became apparent to Dyson that the Zeon ace was _playing_ with them, and that thought infuriated her.

A _Dom_ she had not even noticed coming made a typical high-speed run at her, heat saber glowing, and chopped off her suit's head as it glided past, just before the _Gouf_ kicked her suit in the chest and knocked it onto its ass, and she blacked out.

Lief Dyson watched the camouflaged _Gouf_ make a mockery out of his wife's attempts to delay or damage it, and knew he was dead when it kicked her headless suit onto its back and it did not move except to claw blindly at the ground. He himself was weaponless, and not nearly as good as she was at close combat, but he drew the beam saber anyway, and faced the Zeon determined to die a soldier, though his heart grieved that it would all come down to this.

There were nine Zeon suits surrounding him, all bristling with weaponry, but none of them made an attempt to attack him. The circle parted to allow a _Zaku_-type suit entry, a smoking MMP-80 in one hand, the other hand empty but hovering near the heat hawk.

"_Identify yourself_," spoke a baritone voice through his radio, presumably from the _Zaku_ that stood in front of him. The voice seemed appropriate to the crowned red lion on a blue field that the suit sported on its right breast.

Dyson cleared his throat before answering. "Lief Dyson, Second Lieutenant, service number seven-seven-four-six-nine-eight-three."

The voice was almost pleasant, but something much darker lay underneath it. "_I am_ Generalmajor _Dietrich von Mellenthin,_ Leutnant _Dyson, and I have no wish to kill you at the moment, so kindly replace your beam weapon into its proper storage facility and come out of your suit, please._"

"I don't think so, General," said Dyson with more bravado than he was actually feeling.

"_Please don't make a liar of me,_ Leutnant. _I have no wish to harm you, but if you persist in this foolishness you will be punished. I killed your company in less than three minutes, and if your time playing noble hero with me exceeds that, I shall be very cross indeed._"

The beam saber's energy blade began to flicker as the battery began to lose power. Dyson began to feel real panic rise up in his throat.

Von Mellenthin's voice became patronizing. "_Uh-oh,_ Leutnant, _you're running out of options now. Decide fast._"

"I've still got another one!" he snapped back, even as the saber's light began to fizzle even more frequently.

"_Nopers_," said another voice, much more mischievous, "_ya don't, sorry_." The _Gouf Custom_ made a swirling motion with one of its index fingers, just like a human would have.

Dyson switched his camera over to a secondary and noticed immediately that he was missing his second beam saber from the rear waist rack; it had been casually plucked from his suit by a _Gelgoog Command-Type_, which was burying the blade in the earth so that only the hilt stuck up from the ground. Its battery would die out quickly. "Sons of bitches," he hissed, even as the blade in his hand sputtered and went out. He tossed it to the ground in something of a fit.

"_What a rude thing to say. You should be ashamed, an officer of the Federation speaking that way, what_ is _this world coming to? Step out of the mobile suit,_ Leutnant, _or die. No more games._"

Reluctantly, Dyson complied, the cold air making him shiver involuntarily as he stepped out onto his open hatchplate. The first thing he noticed was an oily stink, mixed with a heady chemical stench and the smell of scorched chlorophyll and cordite, but his skin did not dissolve, so he was at least grateful for that.

The _Zaku's_ hatch also opened, and Dyson resisted the urge to go for his sidearm. The man who stepped out was the most confident being Dyson had ever encountered, wrapped in an aura of invincibility and command like a suit of armor. A greatcloak swirled about him in the wind, and he seemed like a veritable god standing there. That left no doubt in Dyson's mind as to who was in charge here, even as he tried and failed to keep his eyes locked on the blue of von Mellenthin's.

The General motioned towards the ground, where a few of the other Zeon were gathering. Dyson obediently stepped down, a Zeon soldier with a pistol depriving him of his own sidearm when he reached ground level, then leading him towards another Federation soldier who was being covered by two other Zeon with machine guns. Dyson ran over and wrapped his wife in his arms, grateful to see her alive.

Von Mellenthin watched the display without speaking for several moments, though he gestured to the remaining _Dom Tropen_ and it moved off from the group of Zeon suits. De la Somme hopped down and took a seat on the toes of his _Gouf Custom_, sporting an ear-to-ear grin but very sad eyes.

Dyson looked over at the _Dom Tropen_ as it began to methodically chop Cramer's Guncannon Heavyarms into pieces with its long heat saber. "What are they doing?" he whispered into his wife's hair.

She turned to look, but shook her head, just content to be with him at what seemed like the final moments of their lives.

"In case you were wondering," mentioned von Mellenthin casually, "it's a ritualistic desecration of your commander's corpse."

"Why?" asked Angela Dyson, tears streaking down her face from both tension and sadness.

"In spite of everything we set against you, you still managed to kill three of my men. They demand the 'proudest prisoner of the Goths, that they may hew his limbs, and on a pile _ad manes fratrum_ sacrifice his flesh before the earthly prison of their bones; that so the shadows may not be unappeased, nor we disturb'd with prodigies on earth.'" We don't exactly have a mausoleum, and the unfortunate Herschel Invictus Cramer has failed to survive living up to his middle name, so we must make do with what we can."

"Barbaric," snapped Dyson.

"'Patient yourself, madam, and pardon me'," said von Mellenthin, eyes cold but face aglow with a light that was visible as the sun rose on the horizon. He pointed to the still-smoldering _Dom Tropen_ in the distance, and to a _Kaempfer_ that seemed to have had some life left in it before succumbing to its own damage and exploding. "'These are their brethren, whom you Goths beheld alive and dead, and for their brethren slain, religiously they ask a sacrifice.'" Would you rather it be this way, or do I divorce you both in a fashion even the Catholic Church would not protest?"

They all watched as the _Dom Tropen_ belonging to Inaba Ogun finished hacking Cramer's suit to pieces, then plant a grenade in the midst of the scattered bits and detonate it before striding back.

"Now that that is taken care of, my people can deal with the rest of your suits, as well as with our own dead. Are you wounded in any way? I regret we've no doctor, but we can at least make you both comfortable within the limits of first aid." Von Mellenthin seemed no more adverse to the treatment of Cramer's mobile suit than he would have been discussing a wine vintage.

Angela Dyson felt her husband shake his head.

"Very well, then. Behave yourselves while we clean up our mess and you will not be harmed. If you will excuse me for a moment, I have a service to attend to briefly. I will return, and then we will speak of many things." Von Mellenthin turned to face the forest. "You've made a complete mess of this place, all that ran_Dom _firing. It will take decades to recover this portion of the woods."

"You'll _kill_ a Federation officer in a crippled suit and not care, but you'll mourn over a _tree_?!" yelled Dyson at von Mellenthin's back.

The smaller man in the gray-and-gold uniform laughed from his perch at Lief Dyson's accusation. "Yeah, you'll get _real_ far with that, cockknocker."

Von Mellenthin turned his blue eyes on the Dysons, their expression almost mocking. "These trees have outlived empires, just as they will outlive your Federation. I take solace in the fact that someone who loves these trees more than an Earthenoid sworn to defend them has clearly been the victor in this battle. You've just brought into focus exactly why it is you will lose this war, and that my cause is just."

The other man, who must be Antares de la Somme, smirked as he jumped off of his _Gouf_'s foot. "If ya can't stand the pus, don't pop the zit." He shrugged his shoulders and ran to catch up to von Mellenthin, leaving the Dysons under the guns of their guards.

****

Bielefeld. Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe

November 14, 0087

The last sound that came from the radio was a scream for help from the second hovertruck in Cramer's 103rd MI Company. It did not go unheard.

Titans Lieutenant Connor Horvath was the CO of Delta Company, 2nd Battalion, 54th Titans Tactical Armored Brigade, and he was not accustomed to listening to other Federation personnel just suddenly die. He wiped away the tears that were streaming down his face as the radio dissolved into static as dead as the people they had all heard on the speaker. It was so _fast_, from alive to dead, just like that. A snap of the fingers, a blink of an eye, like _that_.

Wiping his face with his black sleeve one more time, he brought the mouthpiece of his headset to his lips. "_GO_, goddammit! Take off, right fucking now!" he screamed into it, as his four platoon leaders jumped in their seats at the sound of his voice. Horvath had been silent the entire time, as they had listened to what they could hear of the 103rd's approach, plight, and final curtain call.

Horvath was a man of emotion as opposed to ration. In spite of Major Tizard's order to stay put in Bielefeld, holed up in the _Garuda_-class transport _Avignon_ while sitting on the airfield awaiting the signal for takeoff, Horvath was not the kind of man to sit still while Federation personnel died and he was in a position to support them. A former Federal himself, he had joined the Titans because he had wanted to make a difference in the way people treated each other. An enforced pacifism by a just and moral organization seemed a better fate than the constant ins-and-outs of diplomacy, combat, armistice, more combat, more armistice, funerals, and nothing ever changing. He had believed the Titans to be the organization for that. 30 Bunch changed that, but it was too late to get out, so he started doing what he thought best in an attempt to change the outward scene the Titans were presenting to the very people they were tasked to defend. The group he had joined had turned out to be somewhat amoral in its actions, but he had sworn it would never be because of him.

Tizard had not bothered to share the aspects of his plan with Horvath, or even with Captain Palaccio, the 2nd Battalion CO, and Horvath had never met Herschel Cramer, but neither of those circumstances affected Horvath's take on the situation. For him, it was clear as night and day: there were Federation personnel getting killed, live, on the radio, and Delta Company was going to get them out of trouble and kill von Mellenthin all at the same time. Easy as that, never mind that Cramer had walked into the shitstorm with both eyes open and both cheeks spread, or that Tizard's whole scheme relied on each Company moving simultaneously at the right moment.

Thankfully for Horvath, his platoon leaders adored him, unlike their feelings for Palaccio, who was more inclined to spend his time with his nose up an ass than play in the mud with his people. Horvath was a hard-charger, who liked dirt and big guns and sweat and loved the people he was responsible for as much as he loved the cause he thought the Titans should be fighting for. They respected him because he respected _them_. In the best of all possible worlds, Delta Company would have followed Connor Horvath into Hell, which was what he had asked them for not three minutes ago when Captain Cramer lost control of the situation. A bit of strong-arming and some convincing later, the pilots of the _Avignon_ taxied the huge machine onto the strip and took off, leaving the pair of Saberfish fighters behind.

"Set course for the last beacon location of the 103rd," he told the pilots, "best speed, please. We'll be combat-dropping right on top of them, so keep giving me the heads-up on ETA to target."

"_Roger that, Captain, but we're going to have to set you down on the near side of the forest and you'll have to go the rest of the way on foot._"

"Why's that?"

"_If the Zeeks've got something that can waste a mobile suit company in that short a time, you think we're gonna risk this big-ass bird doing a direct flyby?_"

Horvath nodded, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the back of his seat, grief-stricken at the loss of the 103rd. "Yeah, I get it. Do what you can, guys. And thanks for this."

"_It's your call, Captain. We're just driving. ETA ten minutes to drop zone._"

"Got it." Horvath removed the headset and rubbed his hair. "We're going to be too late, but we'll get the bastards."

"Sir," said Sergeant Nelson, CO of 2nd Platoon, "what're we gonna tell Major Tizard when we say we just killed his Zeeks for him."

Horvath stared Nelson in the eyes, his own red-rimmed. "That we did our job, Sergeant. It's all we can do. It's what we _must_ do. I can't get it any more clear than that."

Nelson gave Horvath a thumbs-up. "No need to get clearer, sir; I can see through it real good."


	18. Chapter 17

MSG: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed   
  
Chapter 17 (part 1)   
  
Aerzen, Niedersachsen, Central Europe   
November 17, 0087   
  
". . .2105 hours, seventeen November double-oh eight seven Universal Century, official deposition of First Lieutenant Angela Novak Dyson, service number 8891717 by Captain Camael Balke, service number 5457893," spoke Balke into the vocoder box that sat on the plyboard table in front of them. He paused to light a cigarette, offered one to Dyson, who accepted both the tobacco and the light Balke presented from his Zippo, then continued. "This deposition covers events that transpired on fourteen and fifteen November double-oh eight seven, following the destruction of the Federation 103rd Mobile Infantry Company at the hands of the remnants of the Zeon 10th Panzerkaempfer Division at the Teutoberg Forest near Steinbaum, province of Lower Saxony, with two survivors. Covered within this debriefing will be what transpired during the time of captivity of First Lieutenant Dyson and Lieutenant Junior Grade Lief Dyson. First Lieutenant Dyson has been made aware of her rights in accordance with the Uniformed Code of Military Justice, to which all members of the Federation Armed Forces are entitled and subject to therein."   
  
If Balke had had a choice in the matter, they would have been alone in a room far more comfortable than this one. The light bulb was a dim, low-watt one, granting the room a sense of twilight, insufficient to focus on details but also insufficient to cloak the fact that this used to be the upstairs larder of one of the town of Aerzen's less-reputable bed-and-breakfast hostels. Despite assurances to the contrary by the owners, Balke was certain they would rather be host to water moccasins than to Federation military personnel, especially ones in black and red like the two that stood behind him as he sat at the table across from Dyson. For her part, even after cleaning up, Dyson looked like six layers of pneumatic-hammered shit. Balke knew that only time would wash away that look: he had seen it on himself, back in the War. . .   
  
He thumbed the vocoder OFF. "Okay, Lieutenant, are you ready for this?"   
  
Dyson's eyes took on a steely countenance as she sucked in another drag on the rapidly-dwindling cigarette. Balke could almost feel the ghosts dragging on her. Despite an obvious discomfort, directed at the stone-faced pair of Titan guards at the rear of the room, she smiled wistfully. "Ready as I'll ever be, sir."   
  
Balke snorted. "Cut that 'sir' shit out. My name's Camael, or Captain if that's a little much for you, and this is a debrief, not a goddamn Inquisition, no matter what Major Tizard thinks. You're Federation personnel, not Titan, and that makes you my soldier, not his servant. Clear?"   
  
Dyson blinked wearily. "Clear. . .Camael."   
  
"Good." Balke leaned forward until his elbows rested on the table. "Look, Lieutenant, I know what you're going through. Believe me, I know. We've both gotten our asses kicked by the same crew, and it feels exactly like it should: like shit. I've seen the Lion's teeth, too, and they feel really fucking bad when they're digging into your flesh and bones. I've lost my fair share of friends to the 10th Panzerkaempfer and the supermonkeys, so let's cut the Mickey Mouse bull. We're just two officers talking about the shitty week we had at work. You can start whenever you're ready." Balke activated the vocoder when she nodded her assent. "Lieutenant, tell me what happened after the battle."   
  
"That's where things get a bit hazy, Captain," said Dyson with a half-chuckle. "For Lief--Second Lieutenant Dyson--and I, the battle never really ended. . ."   
  
Steinbaum, Niedersachsen, Central Europe   
November 14, 0087   
  
"'Would you be~lieve. . .that yester~day. . .this girl was in m~y arms and swore to me. . .she'd be mine eter~nally. . .'" crooned Antares de la Somme to the Dysons as they waited for whatever it was they were waiting for. This was the fifth Elvis Presley tune he had serenaded them with, and it was beginning to get on the nerves of the beleagured Federation officers. "'And Ma~rie's the na~me. . .of his la~test fla~me. . .'"   
  
The slash of the Dom Tropen's heat saber made a thrumming swoop sound as it descended on the outstretched arms of Lief Dyson's kneeling GM Command, severing the hands from the lower arms. The entire suit shuddered as though it had nerves that felt the pain of the loss of its extremeties, but once it was over, the crippled GM Command became still again, and the Zeon soldier piloting it climbed out of the cockpit. Lief bristled as he watched the Zeon wipe his hands on his uniform, as though touching the Federation suit that anyone would have been proud to pilot had soiled him in some manner.   
  
While this occurred, Angela Dyson remained very close to her husband, watching the Zeon guards for any sign of a lapse in attention. Thus far, she had been disappointed. The two guards, who looked identical to each other, were the pilots of the twin Gelgoog Jaegers that stood not far distant. Close enough for she and Lief to escape, if it weren't for the two boys with machine guns in their way, and the bizarre little man who knew Elvis songs by heart. Gelgoogs had been required study at Nijmegen. . .   
  
"You know," cut in Lief in the middle of de la Somme's tune, quite aggravated, "the Antarctic Treaty covered torture using duress!"   
  
The slight pilot abruptly ceased singing, choosing instead to pout at the physically-larger Lief. "I know," pointed de la Somme at Lief's nose, "you did not just goof on the King. I know you didn't. Don't be cruel, man."   
  
"Yeah, I sure did. What of it?" dared the Federation pilot. "Elvis sucked anyway." Lief was deliberately goading de la Somme.   
  
De la Somme's already-large eyeballs nearly popped out of his skull. "Oh. . .my. . .GAWD," exclaimed the shocked Zeon ace, "you have got to be **** me!! NO ONE says that about the Big E!!"   
  
Remembering that Lief was unarmed and that he was about to get into a musical debate with someone who was not only one of the finest pilots Zeon had ever fielded in the War, but who also may or may not be emotionally stable and had a loaded pistol on his hip, Angela Dyson decided this needed to be nixed, right then and there. "Play nice, please. Everyone has their tastes."   
  
De la Somme crossed his arms over his chest and huffed out a breath. "The only taste an Elvis-hater has is ass," he proclaimed, matter-of-factly.   
  
"Face it, buck-o," continued Lief, not willing to give up the fight just yet, "the man was a thief and a half-rate musician."   
  
"WHAT?!?" screeched de la Somme, clapping both hands onto his head and raking his spiky hair back with his narrow fingers. "Elvis made rock and roll, you---!"   
  
"Liar," spoke a teasing voice from off to the left, as Dietrich von Mellenthin chimed in from the funk he had been rapidly slipping in to during the last hour or so. "Mozart made rock and roll. Congratulations, Leutnant Dyson. Not many people can find one of Antares' buttons to push after only an hour in his presence. You have succeeded admirably."   
  
De la Somme whirled around to face this new broadside. "Be quiet, you!" he spat accusingly at his older foster brother. "The whole Earth Sphere knows your taste in tunes, Deet! Stay outta my turf, wouldya?"   
  
As the boys continued their debate over the value of a long-dead ("Elvis LIVES!! I've SEEN him on Von Braun in a 1973 Stutz Blackhawk III!! Swear to GOD I did!!" hollered de la Somme in the midst of her ruminations) recording artist, Dyson pondered their current predicament. That they had been left alive this long after the massacre of the 103rd Mobile Infantry Company by people who despised her and her loyalties was probably the scariest thing about this whole debacle. She wondered what they were waiting for. Thre was still enough uncivilized about war for her to be concerned that the Zeon had something. . .hateful in the works for her. She was not afraid of being raped, or killed, but she had to inwardly confess that if they forced Lief to watch then it would be like dying a thousand times for her. She prayed that whatever it was they were planning, it would be swift.   
  
In the meantime, she took the opportunity to survey her foes. Most had not deigned to exit their mobile suits, but there were a few out and about. The spiky-haired ball of constant energy that was Antares de la Somme seemed to flit from place to place with the manic zeal of someone with way too much idle time on his hands, when he wasn't engaged in futile debate with music critics, but she was astute enough to notice that he wasted little in the way of movement unless he wanted to. There was one man, a short, mustachioed, almost-slight man wearing Zeon Marine rank tabs, who was very quiet but gave off an aura of being more dangerous than he looked. The scar-faced man who looked like he had been burned in the past held the same rank as de la Somme, and looked as though he knew how to make things happen when they needed to. It had been Scarface who had coordinated the cleanup effort on the battlefield, and he was the one in charge of the Dysons' young guards.   
  
The Zeon had been very fastidious with their battlefield, almost reverent to their own dead, and callously crude to the Federation remains. They had turned the Federal mobile suits into a tableau of horror, pieces scattered about burning torsos, suits holding their own innards in their frozen hands. Cramer's Guncannon Heavyarms had actually been crucified on one of the ancient and massive trees of the Teutoberg Forest, its ruined limbs pinioned to the huge trees adjacent to the one it had been stapled to by the fallen Dom Tropen's heat saber, then set ablaze. Since the sun had still not risen, most of the available light was from mobile suit searchlights and Cramer's macabre funeral pyre. The three downed Zeon suits were stacked as though on a bier, afforded all honors possible.   
  
And the man responsible for all of this stood less than fifteen feet away from her, looking as immovable and impregnable as a fortress all his own.   
  
Uncannily, Dietrich von Mellenthin tilted his head and glanced at her, as though he could feel the loathing emanating from the female behind him as easily as he could feel the chill air caress the flesh of his face. "Perhaps," he began, modulating his voice in the direction of his captives and ending the Elvis debate, all at once, "you were both wondering why you are still alive."   
  
Something snide tried to leap from her tongue, a verbal lash to scar the man's ego, just a piece of pain to repay him for all of this carnage, but when she met his eyes with her own, something made her quail. As the piercing blue of his eyes locked on her, she suddenly felt very small, like a child trying to measure herself up to an adult who may as well have been God, for all her ability to withstand him. It was a similar feeling to how she had reacted whenever her father had enacted his parental authority, and she instinctively recoiled, no, abased herself before von Mellenthin in the same fashion. Her conscious self, along with her military training and discipline, fought against the reflex, but for all of her weapons against it, whatever von Mellenthin had sorely outclassed them. She froze, then lowered her eyes as though to appease his displeasure, real or imagined, and she hated herself for doing so.   
  
Von Mellenthin waited until he had elicited the exact reaction he had been looking for, then removed his gaze from Dyson. Too easy, cattle. Your Mind and Spirit are both weak, just like every other Earthenoid when I remove your capability to use Flesh and Strength. He had been both fascinated and disgusted by the practice of a nation risking its females in combat situations, an unheard-of assumption of risk for any New Koenigsberger, and one he himself would not have dared, but his knowledge was not so deficient in history that he would ignore the precedents for such. Shield-maidens and warrior-womenfolk permeated myth and folklore throughout the world, Europe included. Nevertheless, that mythos simply did not fly in New Koenigsberg cultural parameters.   
  
Lief was the one who answered, standing down from the bullish stance he had taken while facing down de la Somme. "The thought had crossed our minds, along with what it is you're still here for."   
  
Von Mellenthin smiled, almost gently; a very human gesture on his part. "You are still alive because I have a use for you both. As for us," he waved a hand towards the trees, "we're waiting for somebody."   
  
"And he ain't Elvis," stated de la Somme with a frown.   
  
Near Schieder-Schwalenberg, Niedersachsen, Central Europe   
November 14, 0087   
  
The legs of his GM II making contact with the earth transmitted as a crump sound, followed by a hissing whine as Lt. Connor Horvath's mobile suit recovered from its aerial descent to the ground after having combat-dropped from the circling Garuda-class transport Avignon. True to their word, the pilots of the huge vessel had dropped the twenty suits of Delta Co, 2nd Battalion, 54th Titans Tactical Armored Brigade right on the edge of the Teutoberg Forest, as imposing a place as any could be. Horvath checked his systems for any signs of stress or malfunction, then keyed his comm to the Company net.   
  
"Gimme sitreps, people," he said, meaning his Platoon commanders. He keyed the button that blew the parachute from his GM II's wide shoulders to flutter away. Around him, the suits of Delta Company also cut away their drop chutes and started shouldering weapons as they began falling in on their Platoon leaders. Twenty Hizacks and GM IIs, mint-condition and fully-loaded, ready to bring pain to the enemies of Earth and honor to the Titans.   
  
"First Platoon, all present."   
  
"Second Platoon, all accounted for."   
  
"Same for Third."   
  
"Fourth's all here."   
  
"Fifth Platoon, all present, Lieutenant."   
  
"Roger that. Time to earn our paychecks, as the Major would say. We're pretty far north of the fight, so we're going to have to cut through the forest to get there ASAP. First and Second, I want a twin-wing screen vee formation as we negotiate. Third, you take center and rear, Fourth and Fifth'll be behind you as reserve. If we're gonna catch these bastards, we're gonna have to move fast and furious, so lock, load, and kill anything not Titan you find. Avignon will be providing air support, and you know she's got the guns to make it stick. Five minutes to prep your people, then we move. Get busy." Horvath keyed off the mike and leaned back into his GM's chair, taking a moment to settle his helmet more comfortably on his head.   
  
Steinbaum, Niedersachsen, Central Europe   
November 14, 0087   
  
"'Waiting for somebody'?" queried Angela Dyson, obviously confused.   
  
"Yes. He's being fashionably late, but he will be here shortly." The Zeon General turned around to face his prisoners. "But you needn't concern yourselves with that. Your concerns should lie with the mission I have for the both of you."   
  
Dyson shook her head. "Whatever the fuck it is you want from us, you won't get it."   
  
Von Mellenthin smiled, just a tiny little smirk from one corner of his lips. "Oh, rest assured that if I wanted anything from you, I most certainly would get it. But I have another use for the both of you, a use that should not interfere with your duties as Federation officers and all that 'I must continue to resist' idiocy." Pacing to and fro, von Mellenthin pointed at the Dysons' damaged GMs. "I've spared your lives for the purpose of performing a single task for me. No other reason should allow for your continued survival."   
  
"Are you always this long-winded, or did you write this speech for just this moment?" mocked Lief, trying to stifle a yawn.   
  
There was an awkward moment of silence, as if no one present thought that a defeated man would dare insult a Zeon General who was holding all the guns. The twins who guarded the two Federation officers gripped their rifles a little more menacingly, and their neutral expressions clouded over. Then, there was a giggle, followed by the ringing of loud laughter, as Antares de la Somme sucked in great breaths and whooped with joy, pointing and laughing at the Dysons.   
  
Von Mellenthin, bemused, stopped pacing and crossed his arms, tapping his toes and rolling his eyes heavenward. "What, Antares?"   
  
The younger ace was wiping at his eyes, tears of delight streaming down them. "I--I--hee, hee, hooooo boy! I'm okay, really." De la Somme took another moment to stifle the giggles. "Ahhhh, I'm done now, thanks. That came outta left field, didn't it, Deet? I knew I wasn't the only guy around who gets bored when you wax all royal and all that!"   
  
Von Mellenthin crooked an eyebrow. "Yes, well, that aside, I'll just stop and get to the point." He turned his eyes back to the Dysons, but this time, there was a fire behind them, a smouldering font of some base emotion that neither of the Dysons could identify immediately.   
  
It was Lief Dyson who caught on first, and he squeezed his wife's hand urgently, warning her. The look in von Mellenthin's eyes was one of utter and total triumph.   
  
"I've destroyed the 103rd Mobile Infantry in less than four minutes' time. My men and I have obliterated the only Federation presence capable of withstanding Zeon in Europe. The rest of your kind are scattered, barely combat-worthy, and too frightened to bring themselves to the field of battle. Your Titans shall be next, if they dare risk their power railing against the inevitable when Axis is watching every move they make." The General stepped closer to the two Federation officers, stopping only a pace or two away, as though tempting them to some form of rashness. "Their time is running out, you see, and I believe they know it, too. They've not had a great deal of luck with the AEUG these last few months, on Terra or in Space, and Haman Kahn sits in her fortress and simply waits for the right time, patient as a spider. Killing Brex Forra was a mistake on the Titans' part, especially in the eyes of a paranoiac."   
  
The snow and debris crunched under von Mellenthin's boots as he resumed circling around his captives. "You two will have your mobile suits returned to you. I have taken the head from one and the hands from the other, as symbols of your defeat here. You, Oberleutnant Mrs. Dyson, will bear your own head in your hands to show your superiors that your failure here was absolute. You, Leutnant Mr. Dyson, will likewise display your lack of hands, because even with them you could do nothing. When you arrive in Bonn, you will deliver this message to your Federation masters from me: tell them that Varus' legions are still lingering in Teutobergerwald, and that the might of another unwanted and foreign empire has now joined in their lamentations."   
  
Lief blinked. "And that's all?"   
  
"Correct, Leutnant." The expression on von Mellenthin's face was one of those 'I'm-too-clever-for-you-to-know-what-I'm-talking-about-but-someone-you-work-for-will-get-it' looks that those too smart for their own good wore like masks.   
  
Those kind of people drove Dyson up a wall. Cramer had done that kind of thing all the time. "And if we refuse?"   
  
Von Mellenthin's face did not appear to move, but the smile on his face was suddenly larger and, to Dyson's perception, far more. . .predatory than any human's should be. The menacing expression, though it required the movement of about three facial muscles, changed the demeanor of von Mellenthin's entire visage into something more atavistic than his bearing foretold. Dyson began to become very, very afraid.   
  
The General's bestial countenance did not waver as he spoke. "Leutnant, you will perform this task, because you have no choice in the matter. Your books all say that I am a monster: will I have to prove them correct in their assessment?"   
  
Aerzen, Niedersachsen, Central Europe   
November 17, 0087   
  
"Yeah," cut in Balke when Dyson paused in her story, "I've seen that one. Four inches of Neo-Lexan glass between him and me and I still didn't feel safe."   
  
Dyson shivered, stubbing out the butt of her third cigarette into the filling ashtray. The lingering smoke was adding a pall to the already-gloomy room. "I like to think I've been around, Captain, but I'll swear to my deathbed I didn't think a human could make a face do what that man's can."   
  
"There are quite a few things that man can do that people can't," said Balke by way of explanation. "And I hesitate to call that thing in command of the Zeon 'human', but that's my personal bitch. And Antares de la Somme. . ." I can't believe THAT three-dipped devil is still alive, too! Federation Records has a LOT of fucking explaining to do! FOUR goddamn aces! FOUR! Goddamn von Mellenthin, von Seydlitz, Margul AND de la Somme, all still fucking breathing!! "Your information regardng him was very helpful. It explains a lot about how the Zeon have been so prepared for all of this."   
  
"I know you'd prefer not to believe that he's still alive, Captain, but I've got no doubts."   
  
"Yeah, I'll bet. I don't have any, either."   
  
"Any what?" Dyson had missed the last part of Balke's comment.   
  
"Doubts," clarified the Intelligence officer. "Between your physical description and reports from Records and Kassel's survivors, it would seem that on top of everything else, the 'Killing Star' also got out of Metz alive at the end of the War. The Titans," he pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the two guards, which he'd nicknamed "Goon" and "Thug", "are doing what they can to find out where he's been these last eight years and what he's been up to. Berchtesgaden's residents never mentioned anyone like him being around, and people would damn sure remember that spastic little shitball. This brings us to. . ."   
  
". . .to just before things began to get really fucked up, Captain."   
  
Kassel, Hessen, Central Europe   
November 14, 0087   
  
The last of the nine Cerberus attack helicopters leapt off of the ground where it had been resting, taking to the air once more to seek its prey. Camael Balke held up a hand to ward off the spray of ice particles that the dual-rotors kicked up from the ground and into his face. He watched the line of blinking lights that were the rest of the 103rd MI's helicopter contingent as they headed for their intended destinations. They would break off into pairs (and one odd-man out) to begin sweeping every waterway they could within the limits of their fuel, seeking the RMS Ruhrort and the lethal mobile suits of the Zeon 186th 'Deep Dwellers' Amphibious Platoon (formerly 'Battalion'). The word from Nijmegen was that Duisberg had been a red herring, and now there were three Zeon suits and a barge missing in Europe.   
  
Shivering, Balke hoped they would catch a break with this screen. There just weren't enough air assets the Federation could bring to bear to cover every single river and canal that Europe could boast. Rivers made up a third of Europe's intra-continental transportation, and the spiderweb of waterways was extensive just because natural rivers were so plentiful. Balke had his suspicions that after the Rhine-Waal feint with Duisberg, Ruhrort and the Zeon he sought were no longer on the Rhine itself. Even a double-back would be too simple to predict. The problem was where the Zeeks diverted that third possible chemical bomb, and what its target was. Balke had to admit that von Mellenthin was very, very good at making him run into dead ends.   
  
What's really damn well pissing me off is that we still don't have a goddamn clue what the point of all of this IS yet!! He stomped back towards the comm tent, yanking the tent flap open and causing a shower of old snow to dislodge from its resting place, to crumble to the ground. "Anything YET?"   
  
Braxton Bryton had not moved an inch from where Balke had last seen him almost half an hour ago, ass in a chair and headphones squeezed to his ears. Balke slapped the back of his subordinate's head to get his attention, and Bryton reluctantly removed the headset. The big earpieces left red marks on Bryton's skin as the plastic peeled away.   
  
"What?" snapped Bryton, annoyed that there was now only the noncom on duty listening into the silence that was the 103rd's frequency. Bryton had begun to lose all hope, even with the knowledge that the Federation suits had begun experiencing radio interference before reaching Steinbaum to fight the Zeon. But there was not a peep, nothing, coming through on the 103rd's "push".   
  
Balke shrugged. "Still nothing, huh?"   
  
Bryton's head hung down as he stretched his aching neck. "Not a sign, Camael. It's like they vanished without a trace. I wish we had an eye to see with."   
  
"Weather's too shitty for satellites," said Balke, agreeing. "We might have to go ourselves and see."   
  
Bryton rolled his head from side-to-side. "Brilliant idea. What are we waiting for?"   
  
Balke snorted. "Sarcasm fits your ass like Spandex, Brak."   
  
"So?"   
  
"Spandex is still a privilege, not a ri---" Balke's tirade was interrupted by a beeping that came from one of the other communications consoles, an unmanned one. Bryton threw himself out of his chair at the console, and he and Balke nearly collided as they jostled for the RECEIVE button and the headset. After a few seconds of fumbling and slapping, Bryton planted himself in the seat with the 'phones on his skull, and Balke snagged another set to link in.   
  
"Kassel, this is Dog Three, do you copy?" It was one of the Cerberi.   
  
"This is Kassel Command, Dog Three, we copy, over. What's the problem?"   
  
"Oh," laughed the helo driver, "no problems, Kassel, just thought you might want a gander at what's going down on frequency six-niner-six-one-five, that's all. I got a ghost while skimming the sound net, and I think I've plugged into the Titans' tac net."   
  
"If you have," grinned Balke, "I'll owe you a dozen drinks when this is all done. We'll check it for gold. Kassel, out." Balke flipped off the RECEIVE switch and grabbed Bryton's shoulder. "Bring up that frequency, Brak. Let's play peek-a-boo with Captain Assclown and his jolly rogers."   
  
"I won't argue," commented Bryton as he keyed in the numbers. A burst of static as the hopper ran its decryption software, and---   
  
"---engaging unidentified targets at coordinates Charlie-Yankee six-seven-six-niner-niner-zero! Request immediate supp---"   
  
"This is Major Tizard on Dauphin, Avignon! Engaging what targets? Delta Company is supposed to be in Bielefeld, not in the field!"   
  
"Understood, sir, but Lieutenant Horvath ordered us out of Bielefeld to combat-drop onto the 103rd's operations area to give support---"   
  
"Ooopsie," commented Balke. "Someone just pissed on Major Lizard's burrito."   
  
"Shhh!" hushed Bryton, attention rapt.   
  
When Tizard spoke again, it was eerily calm. "Avignon, your orders are to render whatever support you can give to Delta Company as it applies to their extraction from combat area. Tell Lieutenant Horvath to pull his people OUT and laager at coordinates Charlie-Yankee six-seven-six-niner-niner-niner and wait for reinforcements. Do you understand?"   
  
Teutobergerwald, Niedersachsen, Central Europe   
November 15, 0087   
  
It all happened so fast that Horvath did not realize what was happening until everything degenerated into the chaos that war brings.   
  
Everything was fine, kosher, copacetic, inasmuch as it could be. The Titans were running on low-light vision, turning the picture on their screens into a tableau of greens and blacks, with excellent picture quality. Despite this, the Teutoberg Forest showed them what amounted to a wall of impenetrable black. The trees were taller than their mobile suits, and the canopy the huge sentinels gave shrouded the depths of the forest as though the sun never touched this piece of land. Horvath had been a little uncomfortable, knowing that just a few kilometers to the southeast, Cramer's 103rd had walked into this very same forest and vanished. But there was no Minovsky umbrella here to play havoc with Delta Company's ability to see or communicate. In spite of these constant mental reassurances, few of the Titans wanted to move forward.   
  
"Well, what're we waiting for?" he asked over the open channel. One and Two, move forward."   
  
Not a suit moved immediately, even after the acknowledgement that his order was understood. "I dunno, Lieutenant," chimed in Nelson from Second Platoon's formation of four. "It's not that we're scared or nothing, it's just, well, LOOK at that place! It's enough to give anyone the willies! Who the hell knows what the fuck's in there?"   
  
"Jesus, Nelson, you sound like a girl. You're in a friggin' Hizack for Christ's sake! Get your people moving and let's go kill some Zeeks, or are you scared of the fucking boogeyman?" Horvath was getting upset. An entire Company of Titans, frightened of the deep, dark woods. Who'd have thought it?   
  
Reluctantly, one of the suits of First Platoon, a GM II, began to move forward towards the treeline, beam rifle at the ready. The GM's all carried beam weaponry, while the Hizack drivers tended to opt for the 90mm machinecannon for their suits. The rest of First Platoon, along with the other suits of Delta Company, waited to see if the trees ate their comrade. Avignon flew overhead, its altitude quite low, as it made a circle around the point where it had dropped Delta Company.   
  
The GM II stopped at the trees, scanning side to side with its head. Horvath took his eyes off of the suit on his main screen for just an instant, attention drawn to what seemed like movement amidst the black of the forest. "Iron Knight Three, did you see that?"   
  
"Negative, CO, I can't see shit. Switching to infra-red," said the GM II pilot. "I dunno what you guys're so scared of. It's just a bunch of old trees and snow and---"   
  
Horvath felt it before he saw anything. A sudden chill went across his skin and through his bones, and his eyes left the screen for his secondary camera and re-focused on the main screen, just in time to see Iron Knight Three's GM II give a violent jerk, as though it had just been punched in the gut. Staggering back, its gyros misaligned, the Titans mobile suit partially turned around, and when its torso moved, Horvath could almost make out a large shape behind the GM II, looming out of the darkness. The screen flared to a blinding white, as the GM II suddenly became enveloped in an electrical corona. Horvath covered his eyes with his hand, trying to preserve his night vision, even as his other hand groped for the screen shift switch, cycling the camera to IR spectrum.   
  
A second mobile suit was present on the screen, even as the white signature of the GM II began to crumple. The second shape, all spikes and hate and the telltale signs of Zeonic Corporation's design philosophy, snapped its arm backwards, and the GM II flew off of its feet, crashing through the trees as it was pulled into the forest, like a fish on a line. A cascade of colder snow and tree branches partially obscured Horvath's vision, but his audio receptors picked up a sickening hiss-sizzle sound emanating from the woods, a sound he did not recognize. Then, out of the forest stepped Iron Knight Three.   
  
"Oh, my God," whispered someone on the open channel, as they apparently saw what Horvath had just noticed. From the center of the GM II's chest extended a long blade-like protrusion, right where the pilot's cockpit was located. The glow of a heat saber was very stark in contrast to the cooling metal that was the inactive GM II. The Titan suit moved further out of the trees, and Horvath could see what he could only catch a glimpse of before.   
  
The Zeon Gouf Custom that had run Iron Knight Three through lifted the dead suit up a little higher, using its embedded heat saber as a lever, and walked it two more steps into the open. And there it stood, as though daring the Titans to avenge their dead comrade.   
  
Over the open channel, in a German-accented voice Horvath had never heard before, there came the words: "Fools. Even Martin Luther once said 'Demons live in many lands, but particularly in Prussia.'".   
  
The Gouf Custom's free arm, the one not holding the heat saber, reached over and almost casually tore the faceplate off of the GM II, throwing it to the ground in contempt, before swinging its 75mm Gatling shield forward and stitching a line of tracers between itself and one of the Hizacks of First Platoon. The Titan suit seemed to dance as it was riddled with the armor-piercers, collapsing to the ground in a heap, its pilot never even having a chance to pull the trigger of its 90mm cannon.   
  
This spurred Delta Company into action, as the entire front line, six suits' strong, opened fire on the Zeon suit that had slain two of their brethren. The Gouf Custom weathered the barrage for a moment, using the dead GM II as a shield against the hail of incoming fire, before tossing it aside and vaulting backwards into the trees, followed by the crisscrossed tracers and particle beams of the Titans. As the forest swallowed it whole, Horvath noticed that its angry red mono-eye flared to life as it snapped off another shot from its 75mm, the rounds smacking another GM II in the head, knocking out its main camera. The Gouf Custom melted back into the depths of the forest, and the Titans charged after it, the Hizacks spraying fusillades as they pressed forward after the Zeon suit with the black eagle tattooed prominently on its right breast.   
  
Horvath could recall seeing the black eagle whenever the Gouf Custom fired, but could not recall when he had begun screaming.   
  
Garuda-class carrier Dauphin, Niedersachsen, Central Europe   
November 15, 0087   
  
Once the comm officer admitted that, yes, the channel was closed, Major Golan Tizard placed the commlink down on the console and stalked away, face pale with palpable rage. There was not a soul aboard Dauphin that could miss it. It was a rare occasion that Tizard ever became so angry as to incense him to the point of speechlessness. He glided past the tactical station without a sound, past his assembled staff officers, all the way to the far end of the bridge before stopping. Then, he stood there for a long, long set of moments, motionless. There was hardly a sound on the bridge for the duration of time it took the Titan to compose himself, and then:   
  
"Mister Volkyr?" The question was spoken so quietly that if anyone had been straying their attention from the black-and-red-clad uniform, it would have gone unheard totally.   
  
The dour G-3 of Operations glanced at his superior, ripping his eyes away from the illuminated tactical screen that displayed the map of Lower Saxony. "Yes, sir?"   
  
Tizard turned around, and his face was the essence of a stormcloud. "All units: commence Liontamer immediately. Full mobilization as per the plan. Set Dauphin's new course for the nearest field capable of landing a Garuda and make certain Foxtrot Company is prepared to disembark at speed."   
  
There was an awkward pause on the bridge as Tizard's words soaked in. The clock struck midnight, announcing the arrival of the fifteenth of November. Garrett Sajer's face twisted into something rapacious as what Tizard said hit home. "Excellent," was all the young Captain said as he ran towards the doors at the end of the bridge, where the hangar bay was located.   
  
Tizard's eyebrow quirked at the rest of his command staff. "Well? What are you waiting for? I want on the ground in ten minutes or less, or Horvath won't be the only dead Titan officer on the field today. Make this happen."   
  
As the Titans exploded into activity again, and the cacaphony of bridge operations reached its crescendo, Holt stepped beside his commander. "Sir? Isn't this too soon? Are you certain we should commit---?"   
  
Tizard waved a hand, cutting his aide-de-camp off. "Horvath's stupidity has cost us the initiative as well as the element of surprise, and it is now readily apparent that whatever Herschel Cramer walked into, his destruction was absolute. I'll not sit by and have a Titans mobile company meet the same fate as the 103rd and not receive my pound of flesh in return. The fingers of my fist will close on the 10th Panzerkaempfer now instead of later, and I will still gain my victory on my terms. I will not be the mockery of the Titans because one of my subordinates was too foolish and impatient to obey me." Tizard's eyes slid over to stare at Holt, who actually recoiled from their intensity. "If we find Horvath's suit intact and operational, it will not be once I am done with him. Thanks to his ineptitude, the first field test of the Marasai will be against another Titan. Disobedience will not be tolerated, especially by my own commanders. Prepare my suit, Lieutenant, and then prepare your own."   
  
Holt scrambled to obey, and Dauphin lurched downward and to the left as the giant carrier swung west towards its new destination.   
  
Teutobergerwald, Niedersachsen, Central Europe   
November 15, 0087   
  
The Gouf Custom was picking them off, one suit at a time, and Connor Horvath realized that even with his entire Company, this one suit might very well win this fight. He popped off another blast from his beam rifle, the energy blowing through an oak and setting the remnants of the tree furiously ablaze. He was down nine suits now, and only one hit had been registered against the Zeon suit that moved through these woods like a wraith, striking and vanishing before retaliatory fire could take its toll. It was not only frustrating, it was frightening. A single pilot with one outdated mobile suit was making a mockery out of eleven Titans suits, and Horvath had already had to call up to Battalion for assistance, relayed via Avignon, which had not left the area.   
  
He had formed up his remaining suits into something like a loose square, guns facing outward, as they slowly moved through the forest, shooting at anything that moved, hunting that which hunted them. Many of them were missing their main cameras, that being a location that this Gouf driver seemed to enjoy potshotting at range. Horvath marveled at the accuracy of the enemy pilot's shots: they rivaled what a good GM Sniper driver could do with pinpoint beam shots.   
  
Another burst of tracer fire came from the right, the rounds thudding into the torso of a GM II, dropping the suit with yet another cockpit shot. The Gouf pilot seemed to take a liking to shooting GMs in the cockpit, while leaving the Hizacks crippled in other fashions. Horvath guessed it was just because the Hizack looked like a Zeon design, and the pilot's prejudices were just that exacting.   
  
Another movement, and Horvath whirled and fired, his bolt missing the Gouf Custom by what seemed like inches, as the evil-looking mobile suit evaded to the left and sprinted away, out of sight.   
  
"Is ANYONE able to see IR spectrum?" he pleaded onto the open channel at his Company.   
  
"I am," said the cruel voice of the Gouf Custom's pilot, who enjoyed taunting them almost as much as torturing them.   
  
"SHUT UP!!" shrieked Horvath at the comm, tired of hearing this devil mock him and his people.   
  
"It hurts, does it not? 'The death of a friend is like the loss of a limb'; an apt proverb, is it not? How many limbs have you remaining, Titan?"   
  
There was no change in vocal inflection, nothing to forewarn, but as the Zeon pilot spoke about the 'loss of a limb', the Gouf Custom burst out from behind a tree near the rear of the tactical formation and lashed out with its e-whip, striking a GM II and frying its electronics with its charge, removing the suit from action for a time. The other Titan suits opened fire, but the Gouf dropped one of the smoke grenades it had been confounding the Titans' visual abilities with and disappeared behind the concealing clouds.   
  
"It is not your fault, really, any more than it was the fault of your Federation allies. 'Patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel', after all, and you and yours are nothing but patriots."   
  
"Would somebody please shoot this asshole?" cut in one of the Titans' pilots, Horvath was not certain who.   
  
The Gouf Custom pilot laughed quietly. "'Fear makes the wolf bigger than he is', Titans. Surely in your eyes, I must be treading the stars themselves by now."   
  
Another voice broke in: "Delta, this is Avignon! Major Tizard says help is on the way! Anything we can do?"   
  
Horvath keyed the aerial frequency to ON. "Hell, yes!! Start levelling this whole goddamn forest! Torch the fucker out! It's just ONE GUY that's doing this to us!!"   
  
Near Beverungen, Niedersachsen, Central Europe   
November 15, 0087   
  
The hull of RMS Fafnir, formerly known as Ruhrort, settled into the waters of the Weser gently as the two Z'Gok Es released it to float on its own. Wolfram La Vesta popped the hatch on his Hygogg and walked down the extended arm of the monstrous mobile suit to Fafnir's deck, heading for the bridge to activate the 1000-ton draft barge's engines. He did not need a lot of speed for this part of the run; the Z'Goks would provide most of the speed for the empty ship.   
  
The three Zeon suits had physically carried the giant ship from the Lippe river estuary near Hamm all the way to the Weser near the town of Beverungen. That they had managed to traverse the countryside without being noticed at a higher rate of speed than originally intended, once La Vesta had decided to bypass Bad Pyrmont and wet the ship at an earlier point in the river instead. They would sail the ship the rest of the way north.   
  
La Vesta reached the bridge and started flipping switches. "Nestor, I'm putting us at twelve knots, so I want you at eighteen if you can swing it."   
  
"Roger, Sarge. I've got point from here on in, Sarge?"   
  
"'Till I say otherwise, yeah."   
  
"Roger that, Sarge."   
  
The ship rumbled as its screw began to revolve towards its intended speed, but the barge did not move with Vito Taglienti's Z'Gok E clutching it in its talons. La Vesta confirmed the control panel's readings, then ran out of the ship and clambered up his Hygogg's arm. Time to make some more waves. The cockpit hatch closed behind him, bathing the interior in a pale green light. "Let's swim, froggies. Eighteen knots, and stay as deep as you can. We've been damn lucky so far, let's see if we can't keep it that way, eh?"   
  
Aerzen, Niedersachsen, Central Europe   
November 17, 0087   
  
". . .tell me about his men. How were they handling all of this?"   
  
"Like a bunch of high school jocks who'd just won Homecoming. They're all pros, even those two buck privates they had guarding us who looked barely old enough to shave. They took us down like we were nothing, then walked around that battlefield like they owned it. The ones who stayed in their suits I never got to talk to or see, but the others are all von Mellenthin's people to the core. Even the Marine looked up to him. Roberts, his name was, I think. Real hardcase, but stepped-to like the rest of them."   
  
Balke flipped through his stack of papers. "John Roberts, Captain, Zeon Marine Corps, C-in-C of the 22nd Marine Battalion. Only reason he's not an ace is that he and his boys were busy blowing up buildings, bridges, and airfields instead of Type-61s. That 'Scarface' guy you mentioned fits a basic description of Commander Karl Weissdrake, C-in-C of the 555th Airborne, the guys who hit Lammersdorf. Karl picked up those facial souveniers getting his ass torched at Poitiers. Guess he lived through that, too."   
  
"Guess so."   
  
Balke turned to look at the two Titans. "So did we actually manage to kill any of these dicks back in the War? You wouldn't think so listening to this, would you?" He turned back around to face Dyson. "So you'd say his people have high morale at this point?"   
  
"They won't break anytime soon, Captain," said Dyson, matter-of-factly.   
  
"I was afraid of that. Continue, please."   
  
"Von Mellenthin was merrily going about getting impatient as hell. This guy they were waiting for was really fucking late. . ."   
  
Steinbaum, Niedersachsen, Central Europe   
November 15, 0087   
  
"I dunno, Deet," said de la Somme, voice a little worried despite his attempt to hush it, "he's really fucking late."   
  
"Yes," agreed von Mellenthin, face like granite as he conferred with his command staff. "This is taking an unusual amount of time, even for him."   
  
Weissdrake held up a hand. "I'll go look for him if you wish, General."   
  
"No, that won't be necessary. Kapitaen Roberts, has Leutnant McKenna gathered all the data he needs from this little experiment?"   
  
"Yes, General. He's confident we can replicate the same effect at any time, provided that the equipment is available."   
  
"Then thermite the MagLab and start cloaking what we've done here. Let the Federation gnash its teeth in frustration trying to figure out how we circumvented the Minovsky Effect. I want us ready to move in an hour's time if possible. With luck, Oberst von Seydlitz will have joined us by then. Kommandant, what is the status of the children?"   
  
De la Somme brushed some snow off of his head. "I'm not real certain, Deet. They're all asleep, and have been since the fight ended, but it's really more like some kinda coma than anything else. I'm stumped as to why or how, but I think it's some kinda reaction to them losing one of their own. I'm worried about that, too."   
  
Von Mellenthin laid a hand on de la Somme's shoulder. "They'll be fine. Their loss is also our own, but we knew this was possible all along, didn't we?" That loss was a gory ruin in the cockpit of a Dom Tropen, along with a perfectly fine Zeon pilot.   
  
"Yeah, but we're down five suits now, if Reinhardt lost Haskell and Dalyev's Zakus, plus Vlady's two Kaempfers. . .and Kerr." The smaller ace had not taken the loss of Nolan Kerr's Dom Tropen well, but was doing his best to keep it inside until a more suitable time. Ogun was also not grieving, but he had not come out of his Dom Tropen yet, and de la Somme was not willing to force the issue.   
  
"Acceptable losses thus far," replied von Mellenthin, "but we must be careful not to lose any mo---" His sentence cut off as his head snapped up, eyes towards the sky, scanning with keen intent. "Did you all hear that?"   
  
The Zeon officers strained to listen. Roberts shook his head. "Nothing, sir."   
  
Von Mellenthin shook his head in return. "Oh, it's something, Kapitaen, and it's moving closer. We'd best make haste to leave this place."   
  
"What do you hear, Deet?" asked de la Somme, his own senses becoming wired as he watched his brother scanning the sky.   
  
"Trouble."   
  
Teutobergerwald, Niedersachsen, Central Europe   
November 15, 0087   
  
All while being stalked like a dog that had attacked a toddler, Reinhardt von Seydlitz had been having his merry way with his pursuers. He had managed to get himself well-and-truly lost after the Cerberi had finally left him alone with his two dead 358th 'Unsullied' soldiers. The grief had faded to a nagging, painful sensation in the pit of his stomach, but it was not enough to crack his discipline, even over such matters as emotion control. He had not been particularly worried about the 10th Panzerkaempfer and how they must have fared against Cramer's Federals; McKenna's magnetic grid trap, combined with the plastic white phosphorus smoke and the preparedness of the Zeon under von Mellenthin's command would have all blended together perfectly into the best possible situation for his people and the worst possible for the Federation. Von Seydlitz was a pretty good estimator on outcomes, given enough data to quantify a conclusion based on predictive patterns. In this case, the Zeon had it, hands down, even without himself being present for the battle.   
  
He had been slowly tracing his way back, seeking a landmark that he could cross-reference with his GPS to give his exact location in relation to the location of the 10th Panzerkaempfer units, when the Garuda bearing Titans markings had overflown him. He had followed it up until he realized that it was combat-dropping mobile suits, and that they were making a bee-line for the forest, heading southwest at a good clip. He was impressed by the Titans' ability to recover from a drop and move with good order, but drill and ceremony was not an immediate indicator of combat skill. There was only one dowsing rod that would measure the depths of that particular well.   
  
The element of surprise had been all von Seydlitz's, and it had become very clear to him that the 'Black Eagle' would be in his prime with this Titans Company. He had killed or crippled nearly half their number, suffering only a particle burn that nearly slagged his shield in return. They moved like demons but fought like children. Not a veteran amongst them. With the scraps of Zeon's army, we could crush the Titans like an egg under a tank's tread! Where are their men of power, their champions?   
  
A 90mm splintered the trunk of one of the trees he hunkered down behind, raining pieces of the old, cold wood over the head of his Gouf Custom. When the shower was over, he crouched the machine even lower, duck-walking it to another copse as an evasionary measure. The Titans commander, the one in the dolled-up GM II, had begun using a square formation to move his people, and they were systematically sweeping out every possible hiding spot, all while driving him further and further southwest. Little did they know that southwest was the direction von Seydlitz had wanted to go from the start, and his continuous taunts and sniping at their suits' heads was only spurring them onward towards their own destructions.   
  
Then, inexplicably, they stopped.   
  
Von Seydlitz took the opportunity to move again, watching them via IR. What are they waiting for? He brought up the 75mm Gatling arm, resting it across several tree branches, as he drew aim on one of the Hizacks. I will smoke this insensate wretch, and that should get them moving aga---WHAT??   
  
In his infra-red filtered main screen, the forest was lighting up, as though dawn was breaking, but it was far too soon for that. Von Seydlitz abandoned his sniper's stance and shifted the Gouf Custom's camera to where the light was originating, seeking its source.   
  
With its half-kilometer wingspan, the Garuda transport that had deposited the Titans Company he had been mauling with fair ease came into view, spitting tongues of fire from its ten laser turrets, setting the forest alight with its wrath. Beams lanced in all directions from the massive craft, and where those beams touched, fire erupted and things died.   
  
Von Seydlitz cursed silently. They are trying to trap me in a ring of fire! Time to flee, Prince of Brandenburg-Preussen! Without any further attempts at stealth, von Seydlitz wheeled the Gouf Custom around, stood, and ran, even as the Garuda swung around to make another pass on the forest.   
  
  
  
Avignon's huge wings cast a shadow blacker even than the forest itself as it brought its firepower to bear, turrets blazing away at the zigzagging IR form that had been positively identified as a Zeon Gouf-type mobile suit. The suits of Delta Company were fanning out in a line formation, playing hound to the Zeon's fox, though with this hunt, the hounds had an elephant on their side in the form of the mammoth Garuda.   
  
"He's continuing southwest at a good speed. We're tracking him, but he's dodging everything we're throwing and plowing right through the places we've set on fire. I don't think he intends to stop, Lieutenant," explained the pilot.   
  
"Keep on him, Avignon, he's gotta stop sometime. Then he's ours."   
  
"I'll take your word for it, Lieutenant, but if this prick stops he's toast. We'll keep trying to cut---JESUS!!" The pilot broke off as several sharp bangs! echoed through the cockpit, and licks of fire and chunks of armor plate went spinning off into the atmosphere. More bangs sounded through the deck plating, echoing throughout the vast, empty transport. "That motherfucker is shooting at us!"   
  
"What'd you think he'd do, blow kisses at you? 'Sides, those seven-five mikes-mikes aren't gonna hurt your bird. Keep driving him out of the forest, Avignon, don't let up!"   
  
"Roger that, Delta One." More bangs as the Gouf tried to swat the Garuda away. The transport responded with another furious series of laser bursts from its turrets, igniting another several acres of woodland and forcing the Gouf to withdraw even further.   
  
Aerzen, Niedersachsen, Central Europe   
November 17, 0087   
  
Balke scribbled a note on his palmpad, a technological affectation he had acquired before leaving Kassel. "And what happened then?"   
  
Dyson blew a bang out of her face with a quick huff. "Before that point, the Zeon had been busy, but not in any rush. After von Mellenthin's little powwow, something changed in their whole scheme. Von Mellenthin started barking orders here and there, and things got real active. The Zeeks in their suits started gathering up all the weapons and ammo they'd stripped from our suits, as well as their own dead. That was a lot of guns, way more than what their own suits needed for operations. But even the ones that use beam weapons grabbed and went, too."   
  
"Impressions?"   
  
"I'd say they were a little bit upset."   
  
Steinbaum, Niedersachsen, Central Europe   
November 15, 0087   
  
"It's time for you both to leave," said von Mellenthin to the Dysons. "Immediately."   
  
Lief interlaced his fingers behind his neck, stretching. "What's the rush, Spaceman? We were just getting to start knowing each other."   
  
Von Mellenthin actually seemed a bit hurried. "I don't have the time to discuss this with you. You know what to do, now get in your suits and leave here, before I rescind your safe conduct pass through MY country." There was a quiet rumbling sound that had begun to emanate from the ground, barely perceptible under the footstomps of the Zeon mobile suits as they moved to and fro.   
  
Dyson could see Zeon moving with a definite purpose. De la Somme almost literally leapt into his mobile suit, the hatch coming very close to closing on his trailing leg just before he yanked it inside, sealing him within the huge machine. The light given off by the still-burning Guncannon Heavyarms was becoming brighter, or so it seemed.   
  
Von Mellenthin grabbed one of the twins that had remained to guard their prisoners. "Get your suits going. Leave nothing behind except the dead. You," he pointed at the other, "get these Earthenoids out of my sight. Let them crawl back to Bonn to tell their overlords of their failure." The General faced his captives once more. "I've stripped your suits of all of their firepower, including your head vulcans, so don't get any ideas about trying to fight the good fight. You're piloting construction suits, for all intentions, so do the right thing and leave this place."   
  
Dyson could stand it no more. "Sure, but why don't you get around to telling us what the fuck is going on first??"   
  
The rumbling sound was getting louder. Dyson glanced over in the direction of Cramer's crucified and immolated mobile suit, and realized that there was a light in the sky coming from behind it. A Gelgoog Cannon clomped its way past them, hydraulics whining as it range-walked past, but Dyson did not miss what appeared to be heavy-caliber tracer fire arc into the sky from somewhere deeper in the forest.   
  
Von Mellenthin saw her recognize something. "Any further explanation necessary, Oberleutnant? We are about to receive uninvited guests, and you will be in unarmed mobile suits. That puts your life expectancies at roughly eleven seconds apiece, comparable to the battlefield lifespan of a Cav Scout from the 21st Century. My advice is to run and not look back."   
  
  
  
The rumble became almost deafening, as the huge form of a Titans Garuda mobile transport flying nap-of-the-earth exploded from over the treetops, blasting the snow from them with its titanic engines' wash. The Zeon reacted like ants that suddenly had their nest kicked. As the massive craft cruised over them, spitting laser fire in every direction, another line of tracer fire spanggged impotently off of the Garuda's armor, joined in short order by the firepower of the rest of the 10th Panzerkaempfer. The Garuda overshot the Zeon position and began to swing around for another pass, turrets unrelenting in their fire.   
  
From the treeline near the burning Guncannon Heavyarms, a Zeon Gouf Custom, looking a bit battered and scorch-marked, burst from the forest, running practically backwards, stagger-stepping to regain its balance. Wheeling completely around to face its rear, the suit raised its 75mm Gatling and ripped a barrage of fire into the woods behind it, firing at something that did not hesitate to fire back. Three of the trees near the Gouf Custom simply vaporized in particle beam torrents, and near-miss large-caliber rounds began tearing apart the ground nearby.   
  
De la Somme's Gouf Custom raced to assist the new arrival, heat saber drawn and shield forward as it charged. The guards that von Mellenthin had told to go was sprinting full-tilt for their idle Gelgoog Jaegers. Von Mellenthin himself had turned his back to his prisoners, face alight with rage at the sight of the Garuda, and of the Titans mobile suits that were tromping out of the woods.   
  
The black-and-red mobile suits came out in a line, guns blazing at the Zeon as they came. Most of them bore battle scars, ostensibly from the weaponry of the Gouf Custom they had been pursuing. Caught with their britches down, the Zeon suits recovered from their surprise, mustering to engage the Titans in combat. The Dom Tropen joined its cousin Dom in a high-speed drive-by, spraying 90mm at the Titans while the Dom skimmed past, raking the treeline with 880mm bazooka fire. Great gouts of frozen earth and pieces of old trees already shredded by the fight with the 103rd MI launched into the air on columns of flame. Titans suits dove for cover or moved tactically to get out of the way. De la Somme's Gouf Custom ran INTO the forest and behind the Titans' line before any of them could get off a decent shot at the speeding suit, then came back around and fell on the Titans' rear, forcing them to commit suits to keeping the ace from massacring them all.   
  
The Gelgoog Jaegers came to life just as the Garuda came around, its turrets rejoining the battle. The twin suits, the three silver circles of the 555th Airborne emblazoned on their shoulders, brought up their hyperaccurate beam rifles and split up, alternating between moving in synchonistic tandem and snapping off shots at the armored leviathan that bore down on them. The beams were doing little to stop the Garuda, which was armored like a battleship, but they did get its attention, as more and more turrets devoted themselves to blasting at the Gelgoog Jaegers than at the rest of the Zeon, or the forest, which was burning quite nicely. Another Gelgoog, an S-type command unit, joined the Jaegers' attempts to bring down the Garuda, adding its own fire to the mix.   
  
  
  
Von Mellenthin stood in the midst of this battle, unarmored and unheeding of any danger, while his captives lay on the ground, arms covering their heads for cover. Dyson looked up and saw him standing there, concussion from nearby explosions and near-misses making his greatcloak flutter like the wind would a cape. His face was a mask of hatred, his features twisted into something atavistic. After another moment of surveying the battlefield, which was something of a chaotic disaster as brouhaha's went, he started walking (Walking! she thought as she saw it) towards the Zaku High-Mobility that was his own mobile suit, thus far untouched by the fighting.   
  
Lief Dyson was not a small man, even for a mobile suit pilot. Several years in the Service, combined with a totalitarian exercise regimen and his youth, made him a much stronger man than he looked. Dyson knew that her husband was no weakling, who had grown up with three older brothers and had to hold his own against them even before joining the Federation Armed Forces; that his impetuousity got him into more trouble than he needed to be in was a given, considering his temper, but he was usually able to fight his way out of a bad situation, or at least give as good as he got. It was that impetuousity that made him get up from the ground in the middle of a mobile suit-sized firefight, leave his wife's side, and throw himself at Dietrich von Mellenthin.   
  
The Zeon General, for all his thirty-one years of life, had been genetically and environmentally conditioned to be the pinnacle of a soldier as well as a statesman. His strength had allowed him to be the last man standing on the Field of May, facing fourteen other designed warriors whose skills were equal to his own. He had been in more instances of hand-to-hand single combat before the age of ten than most professional boxers and full-time street fighters had in their entire careers. He was a champion bare-knuckle boxer and a hammer thrower, and those were just his after-school hobbies whe he was growing up. The greatcloak about his shoulders was not just for warmth; it was a trophy of his own physical acumen against a deadly predator, one he had killed with his bare hands. This did not mean that he could not be surprised when a lesser being chose to attack him, as in this case when Lief Dyson hit him from behind and tried to put him in a cross-arm chokehold.   
  
Lief Dyson knew exactly what he was doing; this was a required technique for Federation personnel, basic hand-to-hand stuff. Fast and simple, this chokehold would immobilize, then render von Mellenthin unconscious in about three seconds' time, without injuring him further, and Lief would secure his sidearm all at the same time. Thanks to the Titans' providing the necessary distraction and von Mellenthin making the mistake of turning his back on two unarmed yet unbound Federation soldiers, this was their chance to end Nemesis right here and now, and capture the escapee General alive. This was a textbook maneuver for him, which was why he was shocked and confused when he discovered himself going from the man initiating the attack to the one on the ground, on his ass.   
  
Angela Dyson had never seen anyone move as fast or as fluidly as von Mellenthin did just as Lief reached him and actually touched him. Then, Lief was on the dirt, and von Mellenthin just kept walking towards his suit. She could see the expression of total confusion on her husband's face, just before she had to put her face down as another nearby blast rained dirt and wood on top of her, and the ground heaved beneath her. Adrenalin flooding her system, she levered herself up and grabbed the biggest stick she could find, then charged. Lief grabbed at her ankle as she ran past him, bludgeon ready to knock von Mellenthin silly, trying to stop her, but he missed.   
  
Dyson heard the whistle of the stick as it swung through the air with all the force she could muster behind it. While not as physically strong as her husband, she was faster, and more accurate with hand-to-hand and melee techniques. Von Mellenthin sidestepped her swing without even turning around, and made her look slow doing it. She recovered instantly, turning her follow-through into an upwards slash, as though she were using a sword. The General simply lifted an arm and brought it downward, intercepting her makeshift baseball bat with a counterblow, and the stick shattered in her hands.   
  
At least he had the decency to STOP and do that! her mind chastened her as she stared at the useless piece of wood left in her hands. Von Mellenthin, silhouetted for a moment by an airburst explosion, a reminder of the battle raging around them, smiled a tiny little smile at her, like he would to a child. THAT pissed her off.   
  
"Surrender," was all she could get out of her mouth.   
  
The blazing ruin of a Titans Hizack staggered past in the background, collapsing into the forest to lie in a heap. Von Mellenthin closed his eyes. "Make me," was his response.   
  
She did not know why, but her hands dropped to her sides and she said: "I can't."   
  
Von Mellenthin's grin got a little wider. "Of course you cannot. No one can. Not today, at least." He turned away from her, the very picture of regal confidence. "Another time, Oberleutnant."   
  
And Angela Dyson knew that she could not, and hot tears of frustration were her only comfort as she watched him walk away, climb into his Zaku Hi-Mo, and wave snidely at her as the hatch closed and the great machine went to war.   
  
Aerzen, Niedersachsen, Central Europe   
November 17, 0087   
  
"You're lucky he didn't just kill the both of you. He can do that, you know," said Balke, amazed that neither of them were seriously injured in that episode of what seemed to him to be suicidal idiocy.   
  
"Guess he liked us or something." Dyson leaned forward. "I've met professional athletes who can't move as fast as he did. His reflexes were unreal, and this is coming from a girl who makes her living with having good reflexes. He dumped my husband onto the ground like he would flick a penny into a pond, all while walking through a firefight! A mobile suit firefight, complete with air bombardment!"   
  
Balke did not respond immediately, instead checking over his copy of the initial debrief that she had given Major Tizard's Titans yesterday. "And. . .here is where you and your husband left the field with your GMs?"   
  
Dyson nodded, slumping back into her chair. "I'm sure we made quite a sight, too, the Headless and the Handless. We didn't find out about the battle's outcome until we got to Kassel quite a few hours later."   
  
"Well, you didn't miss anything there," said Balke, derisive. "The Zeeks came out on top with that one, too. Tizard's hiding it, but most of Delta Company is gone, including Lieutenant Horvath, who apparently ran afoul of de la Somme sometime in the fight. And things," he waved a hand towards the window, the one that faced east, "have been like this ever since."   
  
"At least we know where they are. That's something."   
  
Balke nodded slowly, staring into space. "Yeah. Maybe."   
  
Steinbaum, Niedersachsen, Central Europe   
November 15, 0087   
  
The battle was turning in favor of the Zeon, even with the almost-invincible Garuda in support of the Titans. The damage to Delta Company at the hands of Reinhardt von Seydlitz was too extensive, and the shock at being forced to engage multiple targets where before there had been one was long to linger and slow to disperse. The confusion was almost absolute on the part of the stunned Titans, while the Zeon moved with the well-oiled precision that a veteran unit developed over the length of a campaign.   
  
The three Gelgoogs of the 555th 'Triple-Nickel' Airborne had been designated as the ones responsible for getting rid of that annoying Garuda that kept making combat passes over the battlefield, filling the combat zone with laser fire and destruction everywhere its shadow passed. While it was not really hurting the Zeon suits, it was forcing them to take into account its volume of fire, and compensate, making this fight last longer than it should.   
  
Where the Titans were really hurting was in close combat. Even equipped with beam sabers, the blitz of Antares de la Somme and the pleasure in which the Zeon closed in on their foes rendered the more-advanced Titans technology inert. Even the vaunted speed of the less-advanced but more-nimble Hizacks was doing them little good, as the Zeon refused to allow them room to maneuver. The Titans were simply getting hacked apart, when heavy-caliber fire from the high-speed Doms weren't making them dive aside or risk being blown apart by a bazooka shell. What the Goufs did not cut down with their heat sabers, the remaining Zeon simply sniped at. The Titans numerical superiority had been whittled down to a mere fraction of their former numbers, and Lieutenant Connor Horvath's GM II lay among the fallen, slit open from neck to navel by the 'Killing Star'. The ace's Gouf Custom had leapfrogged over one of Horvath's own Hizacks to get at his GM II, slashed apart the Titan suit's vitals, then casually crescent-kicked the Hizack into the line of fire of one of the Doms, where it burst with great flair.   
  
The single Zaku Hi-Mo, not much removed in mechanics from a Hizack, moved in and out of the fight with the customary leisure of someone who knew when and where he was needed, using its twin MMP-80 90mm machinecannons with deadly accuracy, the same way it had with Cramer's Guncannon Heavyarms. A burst here, a blast there, wherever it was, something either became crippled or someone died. Few attempted to engage the Zaku directly, mostly because its victims were already tied up with another Zeon suit. The only thing the Zaku was not hurting was the Garuda.   
  
  
  
"Those goddamn suit drivers just told me to piss off!" complained Avignon's comm officer. He had just ordered the CO of Fourth Platoon, the highest-ranking Titan on the field now, to withdraw back into the forest and disengage the Zeon. The order had been as politely refused as much as anyone in the middle of a fight for their lives was willing to be mannerly.   
  
"What'd you expect? Them to thank us? That moron Horvath--" the pilot's voice was strained as he gritted his teeth, wrestling with the stick to keep the giant craft in its turning arc even as the Zeon poured particle blasts into its armored hide, "---walked into a goddamn trap! Where the hell are our people supposed to go? Look at the fucking forest you're trying to get them to run through! It's practically an inferno!"   
  
Another bolt sizzled across the bow of Avignon as one of the three Gelgoogs that was tormenting it capped off another shot. The laser turrets of the Garuda were blazing away fervently, but the Gelgoogs were too swift for the human gunners to maintain their target locks. To make matters worse, the Gelgoog Jg-types had begun pinpoint sniping the laser turrets. Unwilling to dispense Minovsky particles for cover and lose communications with the Titans on the ground, Avignon had set itself up for trouble.   
  
"Low-level combat pass. Let's hit them with everything we've got, point-blank!" The transport made a steep drop in altitude, the treetops almost brushing its hull as it overflew them.   
  
The Teutoberg Forest was a conflagration. The path of the Gouf Custom had prompted Avignon to light up a swath of fire almost three kilometers wide right through the center of the old woods. With the battle raging below, there was no one and no way to put the fires out. And while the forest burned, men died.   
  
"Dauphin to Avignon. Status report."   
  
The comm officer mashed a button on his console, even as the Garuda rocked from another series of Zeon particle hits. "This is Avignon. We're not doing so well, Major. Delta Company is down to five suits still able to fight, and we're taking heavy fire from the Zeeks. The Delta leftovers refuse to leave the field, and we're having trouble giving them fire support."   
  
"Understood. Foxtrot will be there in four minutes. The others are already moving. Tell Delta to hold out for as long as they can. The same goes for y----"   
  
The comm officer never got to hear the rest of the message, as the bulkhead above the cockpit of Avignon suddenly burst apart, venting the pressurized interior to the atmosphere. Stricken, the great machine began its final descent to the ground.   
  
  
  
Karl Weissdrake's Gelgoog Commander leapt from the top of the crippled (and brainless) Garuda, using the Gelgoog's powerful thrusters to land the suit without harm. A true stroke of luck, that, he thought as he watched the massive craft plunge into the raging inferno it had created. He deactivated the double-bladed beam saber he had used to carve the pilot's compartment apart when he landed. The two Gelgoog Jaegers raced up to join his suit, beam rifles at the ready.   
  
This fight is all but over now. The Titans were crushed. Von Seydlitz's guerilla hit-and-run attacks, plus the fury of the Zeon counterattack, had brought low the Titans this day. Weissdrake counted the Zeon suits still standing, and was pleased that aside from some serious wounds to some titanium and steel hides, all of them were still up and moving.   
  
"10th. To me." That was von Mellenthin, who was putting the final touches on a downed GM II that still had some fight and a head vulcan with ammuntion left. "Gather their weapons and ammunition. Now that Oberst von Seydlitz has deigned to join us, we can depart. Are my messengers away?"   
  
"Affirmative, General," came Roberts over the channel. "They're heading south at a good clip."   
  
"Excellent. We shall head north, to grid coordinates Hotel-Bravo five-seven-seven-one-one-eight, to rendezvous with---"   
  
"INCOMING!!" yelled the synchronized voices of the Foxe twins.   
  
"Where? WHERE?? Lemme at 'em!! I'll give 'em what-for!" blabbed de la Somme, Gouf Custom spinning around, mono-eye snapping to and fro, seeking targets.   
  
Weissdrake tracked on his men's facing. "There! Aerial target, coming in at eleven o'clock!"   
  
"And another at seven o'clock. The Titans seek to cut us off," noted von Seydlitz dourly, which for him meant 'neutrally'.   
  
"Is the northward still clear?" asked von Mellenthin, and Weissdrake could almost smell the beginnings of some horrible plan cooking in the General's psyche.   
  
"Yeah, it's clear," rumbled Margul from his Kaempfer. "I'll lead." The evil-looking suit gave a quick burst from its thrusters and took off running.   
  
"And I'LL follow!! After him, boys!!" De la Somme whooped like a schoolkid and took off running after the Kaempfer.   
  
"If we get split up, new rendezvous point is two klicks north of the last one. Don't be afraid." Von Mellenthin's confidence was contagious. "I've been preparing for this."   
  
Were it anyone else, Weissdrake would have called 'bullshit' on that last statement, but this was Dietrich von Mellenthin, and his Will was Law. The scarred man rubbed exhaustion from his eyes. "Let's scoot, twins; we've got an appointment and it's not with the Titans."   
  
The 10th Panzerkaempfer Division, all eleven suits strong and/or damaged, began a double-time north, the smoke from the Teutoberg Forest Firestorm concealing them as well as the plastic white phosphorus had, even as the incoming Garudas began disgorging Titans mobile suits from their hangar bays, to land on the earth with feet of fire and wings of gossamer silk.   
  
Aerzen, Niedersachsen, Central Europe   
November 17,0087   
  
"You've been very cooperative, Lieutenant. I wish every interview I've ever done went as well," said Balke, smiling as he stood up. He held out his hand for her to take as she stood, which she accepted.   
  
"Thank you for not making this hard on me either, Captain. What happens now?"   
  
"Now?" Balke shrugged noncommitally. "Now we do what the Titans have to do: wait. When the supermonkeys get antsy, they'll jump, but until then, we wait. Or, that's what I have to do, really. You are probably going to either get shipped back to Kassel or find yourself a mobile suit and go kick someone's ass. With luck, it'll be the latter and not the former, if you get my drift."   
  
Dyson's eyes looked a little wary. "A mobile suit? To fight them again?"   
  
"Heck, yeah," Balke winked at her. "What von Mellenthin forgot was that today's a new day. Today, you might just be able to make him surrender, you know."   
  
Dyson nodded. "Maybe you're right, Captain. I'd better go."   
  
"Drop by anytime. Anything else you can remember that could help us, let me know, okay?" He showed her out the door, and the two Titans followed her, leaving Balke alone in the room.   
  
The Intelligence officer walked over to the window, the one that faced east, staring out beyond Aerzen's border at a point about six miles distant, where he could just make out the blurry shape of a clock tower. That clock tower stood in the town of Hameln, which had become the Firebase Hameln as of noon, two days ago, when the 10th Panzerkaempfer had marched into the town to escape its Titan pursuers.   
  
"Damn you to Hell, Dietrich von Mellenthin; you and all your rat-bastard sons of bitches," hissed Balke at the clock tower on the horizon, where the Devil had come to make his home.   
  
Hameln, Niedersachsen, Central Europe   
November 15, 0087   
  
The most major and economical cultural center in the region of Weserbergland, Hameln had sprouted up in the year 851 AD around a Benedictine monastery. From this little seed of relatively banal beginnings, Hameln's history was a mishmash of ups and downs: the little market colony once under the dominion of the Duke of Braunschweig gained its independance in 1277, only to lose all its children in 1284 in the Exodus, later to become the tale of the Pied Piper; in 1664, the town was fortified and became known as the "Gibraltar of the North" for its Hannoverian impermeability, only to fall prey to Napoleon Bonaparte in 1808, who had the fortress destroyed; in 1867 Hameln became Prussian-owned, only to nearly be burnt to the ground in World War II, which succeeded in obliterating most of its town records. The millstone that sat on the civic arms of the town was often wondered to be around the collective necks of the citizenry, due to Hameln's spotty history.   
  
For the most part, legends and lore aside, the folk of Hameln got on as they always had: with perseverance. They just didn't let things get to them, or at least, that's what they tried to do. A place that had survived the Piper, Napoleon, and World War II, certainly could handle anything else with little effort. 'Anything else' also included the One-Year War and the coming of the Zeon. The 14th Terrestrial Mobile Division, hot on the heels of the hellriding 10th Panzerkaempfer Division that had simply bypassed all of Germany in its race for Paris, had stopped over in Hameln for a day or so and then withdrew back to the east in the face of several Federation Army Groups that were mustering for Operation Odessa. The Federals also stopped in for a day or two, sampled what the town had to offer, and then moved on. The One-Year War had spared Hameln any pains, and not a shot was fired in the town limits. And Hameln moved on.   
  
It came as something of a shock to the citizens this morning to hear the sounds of heavy-caliber weapons fire coming from the south, and moving closer as time passed. They had heard the Seydlitz Proclamation just like everyone in Europe had, but had not been overly concerned with Nemesis. They'd simply bought out the region of bottled water. said their prayers, and went about their daily business. But actual gunfire, and moving towards them, now that was an attention-getter. As the hours passed and the noises of furious combat crept ever-closer, the streets began to empty of people. Some even started some preliminary packing when smoke began to appear in the air from some point in the distance. Most just got on their knees and prayed to St. Vicelinus, who had been born in Hameln, for protection from whatever nightmare was descending upon their town. Even the Polizei prayed.   
  
When the citizens could actually see the explosions as the fighting drew nearer, the Catholic bishop began to ring the bell in the church tower, warning those who could hear it that trouble was coming and that the door of the cathedral were open for refuge. A good portion of the 16,000 residents heeded the call, and soon the pews were full. The rest flooded the Lutheran chapel, until it was standing-room only; those who did not go to either stayed indoors and at home.   
  
After a time, it became apparent that the fighting was not drawing any closer, but that a loud clanging sort of thump was, and that it was shaking the very ground as it sounded. The Lutheran church, on the western half of the town, heard it pass them by with a noise like the Host of Heaven clashing cymbals all in unison, but none dared look to see what was causing the ruckus. The noisemaker crossed the bridge over the Weser on Muensterstrasse and continued into the heart of Hameln, which lay on the eastern side of the river, and came to a halt in front of the Catholic cathedral.   
  
Inside the old church, everyone, including the dead in the graveyard, had heard the thunderous noise, and where it had stopped. After a moment or three, there was a loud TAP, TAP, TAP at the closed doors of the cathedral, as if God Himself was knocking at the door. The bishop mustered his courage in the face of adversity, calmed his flock as best he could, feeling death was at his doorstep, and left the nave and made his way towards the doors, not listening to the pleas of the people who had come to trust him. With all his regalia in place and peace in his heart if not in his mind, he unlatched the door and opened it, ready to face Hell itself. He nearly dropped his jaw open at what he saw.   
  
In the snow-encrusted courtyard of the cathedral was a Zeon mobile suit, one that had seen better days. Its armor was pitted and scarred, its shield a mass of twisted metal. The giant machine was down on one knee, deactivated heat saber grounded point first as if the mobile suit were praying to it. It was even bowed over in supplication, like a wounded knight kneeling to pray. A ray of sunlight managed to pierce the cloud cover for a moment, striking the mobile suit on its head and shoulders. It was picturesquely awesome, even if the recipient centerpiece of the picture was a broad-shouldered, spiky, Cyclopean machine of Spaceborne warfare. The bishop stared at the monstrous machine, while the sounds of weapons fire echoed in the background.   
  
The Gouf Custom, white star-and-sword on its breast, crossed itself like any penitent would, before the great red eye dimmed and its hatch opened, disgorging a hyper little man who tossed his helmet back into the cockpit as he leapt to the ground and ran over to the bishop.   
  
"Hey, howdy," said the manic pilot, crazed grin on his sweat-soaked and filthy face, reeking of mobile suit, combat, and death. "Just the man I've come to see. Got a minute for a God-fearing man, Padre?"   
  
"I--I--" sputtered the bishop, "who ARE you?"   
  
"Me?" laughed the pilot. "I'm Antares, but I'm just the message boy. See, my boss, Deet, he and his troops are out there fighting the Titans, and they're doing pretty good seeing as how it's a running fight and there's, like, a zillion Titans and shit--ooops, sorry about the language slip there---"   
  
"It--it's fine, my son, now please---" interjected the bishop in vain, because the pilot didn't miss a beat.   
  
"---but we're really tired and we've been fighting for over eight hours while on the move now and my boss, who's also my brother, but so is Reinhardt and he's my boss, too, well, they sent me to find you---" the pilot craned his neck past the bishop, a strange zip-zip-zip kind of motion more reminiscent of a bird or a lizard's movements than a man's, "---you aaaaaaaaand, who the hell was it? OH, yeah!! It was YOU and the Buergermeister I was supposed to find!! 'S he in here? YO!!! Booger-master!! C'mon out if you're in there! I gots to have a word wit' you!"   
  
"Look," said the bishop, trying to calm the little man down, "would you please explain what all this is about?"   
  
The pilot blinked at the bishop. "Ritus ara." he said, as if to say 'Stupid, what did you think I was doing?'   
  
"B-b-beg pardon?" stammered the bishop.   
  
"RITUS ARA!!" yelled the pilot. "RITUS ZUFLUCHTSORT!! My BOSS--"   
  
"--Deet--" confirmed the bishop, nodding.   
  
"---wants to invoke the Ritus ara. He wants to request Sanctuary for he and his troops, from you, in your town, and he wants it right now." The pilot crossed his arms and shut up, waiting for an answer.   
  
It took a little while for the bishop to let it sink in. "Wait one minute, please. I'll be back."   
  
"Take your time, Pops," said the pilot, pulling a neon green Yo-Yo out of his trouser pocket, "it's just lives we're talking about here."   
  
The imperative in the pilot's words was not lost on the bishop, any more than the sounds of warfare that rang in the distance. Closing the door on the kneeling Gouf Custom and the Yo-Yo-twirling Antares de la Somme, the bishop went to go track down Hameln's mayor.   
  
  
  
"I'd like to help you," said the Buergermeister von Hameln, the mayor of Hameln, to the Zeon pilot with the Yo-Yo and the Commander's rank tabs, "but according to the bishop, the rite of Sanctuary was abolished in the 1800s, and is no longer recognized by any authority, be it Church or secular." There were children playing on and around the kneeling Gouf Custom now, as a crowd had begun to gather. The pilot, along with some child he had brought with him, was in the open cockpit of the war machine, looking down at the Buergermeister and the bishop as they discussed the situation.   
  
"My boss---"   
  
"---Deet---" confirmed both the bishop and the mayor in unison.   
  
"---is aware of the history, but he asks it anyway, and according to him, if both of you snotsuckers agree to it and tell the Titans, then by Federation law they have to give over and leave us alone for as long as we're within the town limits." De la Somme glanced at his filthy fingernails even as he adjusted Erik on his lap. The boy was still in a daze, barely awake, and mostly unresponsive, which worried de la Somme greatly. "We didn't wanna bring this shit here, but here it is. You gonna help us, or not?"   
  
The mayor spread his hands wide. "Even if I said 'yes', it would change nothing, so the answer is 'no'. We cannot help you."   
  
De la Somme sighed, then reached over and flipped a switch. "They say 'fuck you', Deet. They say you ain't got no smoke, Deet."   
  
A cacaphony of noise emanated loud enough that it seemed half the town could hear it. The crashing noises of a serious fight were deafening, but the roar of the voice on the other end was VERY audible. "YOU TELL BOTH THOSE LOW-GENE WORMS THAT IF THEY SAY 'NO' TO THEIR EMPEROR ONCE MORE, I WILL MAKE ALL OF HAMELN'S PEOPLE DISAPPEAR, NOT JUST THE FUCKING CHILDREN!!!" The sound of an explosion and a hideous screeech was what ended the transmission.   
  
De la Somme flipped the switch back to OFF and shrugged. "Well, there it is. I think he's gonna bring the boys in real soon, so you'd might as well say 'yes' and save yourselves a lot of ass-augering, if you get the drift."   
  
  
  
After a moment's conference, the mayor looked up at Titans Major Golan Tizard, eyes downcast. "The town and bishopric of Hameln have granted the soldiers of the 10th Panzerkaempfer Holy Sanctuary. No man may harm them or their property for so long as they remain within the limits of the town. Likewise, the town and bishopric of Hameln deny entry to any personnel of or affiliated with the Titans or the Earth Federation for the duration of the 10th Panzerkaempfer's Sanctuary."   
  
The Zeon suits had taken up fire positions throughout the center of Hameln, facing outward in all directions. The Titans' suits were arrayed in a ring around the entire town, five Companies of mobile suits. Tizard's Marasai and Garrett Sajer's Barzam, along with a four-Hizack escort, stood just on the far side of Hameln's town limit, hatches open.   
  
Sajer's face was a mask of disbelief, while Tizard's was coolly neutral. As what happened dawned on the younger Titans Captain, he began to laugh.   
  
"What the hell are you jabbering about, you jolly, fat fool?!" spat Sajer down at the mayor of Hameln. "The Titans are ABOVE local law, much less a goddamn worthless claim as this horseshit! Get out of the goddamn way and let us kill those--"   
  
"We accept the terms," said Tizard with little inflection in his voice, stopping Sajer's rant dead in its tracks.   
  
"WHAT??" squeaked out Sajer, shocked beyond rationality.   
  
"Let's go, Captain. Herr Buergermeister, kindly inform Major General von Mellenthin that this move is well-played, but this is not over by far, and we will outlast them in the waiting game. Have a pleasant evening." Tizard raised the Marasai to its feet from its kneeling position. It was untouched by combat, unlike the Hizacks, which looked like some child had hacked scoops out of their armor and attacked the paint with a fistful of nails. With that, the Titans' suits began their march to their lines.   
  
Tizard keyed his radio as his hatch closed. "Lieutenant Wolstead, I want a field HQ set up in," he checked his reference map on his tactical display, "Aerzen, and I want it there NOW. Tell the Battalion commanders that I want a ring of black around this entire town, complete with checkpoints. NOTHING goes in or out without our knowing it. While you're at it, get Captain Balke and his merry little band of Federals up here ASAP."   
  
"Yes, sir." Wolstead sounded as confused as Sajer had.   
  
Tizard thumbed the radio to Sajer's suit. "You're probably wondering what I'm doing, aren't you, Captain?"   
  
"You MIGHT say that, sir," came Sajer's fuming voice, "when we could level the whole stinking town and blast all those Zeeks to Hell and gone RIGHT NOW!"   
  
"And accomplish what, Captain?" asked Tizard in his quiet voice. "Sixteen thousand dead civilians, all for eleven Zeon? And what if von Mellenthin is expecting to be attacked here? Will he pull another Metz, and blow apart the Titans in a pyrrhic victory that will cripple us right when we're needed the most? I think not, Captain." The Marasai lengthened its stride, forcing the Barzam and the Hizacks to increase their own gaits to keep up. "The time will come, Captain, when the Zeon will have to leave Hameln; when the town kicks them out, when impatience sets in, when whatever timeframe they have demands it, they will have to leave. All we have to do is wait, and then we will have them. Besides, I owe it to von Mellenthin for this little desperation scheme. Enacting a long-dead rite in conjunction with Federation Status of Forces Agreement 1014 was brilliant."   
  
"What's 'Agreement 1014', sir?"   
  
"That's the one that says that each civilian population has the right to deny services to Federation personnel, provided the public opinion warrants such a declaration. It's a post-War legal ruling in response to the amount of looting and all that nonsense that Federation soldiers engaged in on Terra during the War. Unfortunately, we must obey it, for circumstances' sake if for no other reason. This will be a game of the patient, Captain, and we must be thankful for it."   
  
"'Thankful', sir?"   
  
"Oh, yes," remarked Tizard. "Without this, we would never have regained the initiative that Horvath cost us this morning. Now von Mellenthin is in a purely defensive position, unable to maneuver, and trapped where he is, and WE have the overwhelming advantage of numbers and all the time in the universe. Even with the near-total loss of Delta Company, we hold supremacy. The Zeon think they're dictating the terms, but all they are doing is digging their own burial site in advance."   
  
Aerzen, Niedersachsen, Central Europe   
November 17, 0087   
  
Which is exactly how things have stayed, strayed Balke's thoughts as he stared at the distant church tower in Hameln. Why the fuck am I even here? He knew why, of course: Tizard was expecting him to do something callously rash, and fuck this whole idyllic medieval scene up something fierce, which would give him the excuse to break the rite of Sanctuary and splatter von Mellenthin, then have an alibi for afterwards that would pin the ass-tail on the Federation donkey and not on the Titans.   
  
Balke knew that Tizard was still hot under the collar, about the circumstances they were in as well as the loss of Avignon and Delta Company. For all the airs the Titans Major put on, he was almost as easy to read as Sajer was. Sajer, on the other hand, had been a Class-One full-torsal asshole for the last two days, and was taking it out on anyone he came across. He had lambasted Bryton yesterday at length about some sort of fuck-up in the debrief of Lief Dyson, and had not stopped screaming like a baboon until Dorff had poured a glass of ice water over the Titan's head. Sajer had vowed violent revenge, but the ex-Pionier had seemed singularly unconcerned. Tensions were rising in the camp the Titans had made of Aerzen.   
  
Still, the information the Dysons had given him had brought him some insight into how the Zeon were equipped. Not well at all. For all of their mobile suits and ingenuity, it seemed that the Zeek supply line was only about ankle deep on an earthworm. The fact that they were scoring Federation guns and ammo, and that there was no evidence of a cargo vehicle or any sort of long-duration field equipment, led Balke to postulate that wherever von Mellenthin was going, he wasn't there yet, and he only had enough stuff with him to get him and his death commandoes to that point. So where ARE they going? What really IS Nemesis?   
  
Her commentary also tracked dead-on with her husband's comments about the post-War whereabouts of Antares de la Somme. Von Braun had been mentioned in the middle of the Elvis debate, and Balke had the Titans skimming the records looking for anyone matching de la Somme's physical description. He had no proof, but Balke was willing to bet a week's worth of free video rentals that de la Somme was the elusive Rigel fan Waal, presumed-dead freighter pilot of the Good Ship Non Sequitur.   
  
Balke wanted desperately to know the responses to those questions. Where can I go to get some? The answer lay six miles away, and all that was between he and what he wanted was a wall of Titans and one ancient holy rite. 


	19. Chapter 18

**MSG: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed  
  
Chapter 18  
  
Hameln, Niedersachsen, Central Europe  
November 19, 0087**  
  
The eyes behind the high-powered field binoculars scanned to the left for what seemed like the millionth time, alighting on the sight of a pair of Titans _Hizacks_ as they cruised over using their powerful thrusters to settle down near another group of Titans suits, a mixed bag of the ubiquitous _Hizacks and GM IIs. The binoculars tracked to the right, only to fix upon a similar sight; black-and-red Titans mobile suits, in fixed-fire positions about two thousand meters outside the town limits. The binoculars swiveled around to face the far side of the Fulda river; more Titans. They were everywhere, as they had been for the last three days. On both sides of the river, Hameln was surrounded by the 54th Titans Tactical Armored Brigade, and they were making their presence a constant consideration.  
  
Stifling the urge to spit off of the end of the clock tower, where his lookout perch was, Zeon Marine Captain John Roberts kept his eyes trained on a location just beyond the second line of lethal GM IIs and _Hizacks_; a field command-and-control tent about five kilometers out, probably a battalion command post. A delicious target, had Roberts been in his __Gelgoog__ Marine Commander, but just a painful sight for sore eyes where he was now. The Titans had ringed Hameln with more firepower than had been seen in Europe since the One-Year War, and the Zeon of the 10th __Panzerkaempfer found themselves in the same shit they had been in at Metz. Only at Metz, the __Hizack__ Custom and the suit his computer was unable to identify would not have been there. The Titans were nice in that regard, at least: it was easy to distinguish between a commander's suit and the grunts. A very Zeon sort of trait, and a strange custom for an anti-Zeon group to have adopted.  
  
Roberts was astute enough in the art of fieldcraft to know that von Mellenthin's ploy in Hameln was mostly psychological in nature; he had fooled that Titans Major into risking another Metz and had managed to win that bluff. But Roberts had to wonder why it was taking the Titans so long to figure out that it _was_ a bluff. Barring some unforeseen development on the part of their opposition, he surmised that even if they _had_ figured it out, their lack of motivation to strike with their overwhelming firepower had to be some plot in the making. Hameln was no Metz, with its ring of fortresses and natural obstacles to overcome; this township was on the banks of a river, surrounded by Lower Saxony's flat plains and marshes, and had few large buildings that offered cover of any sort for the beleaguered Zeon mobile suits.  
  
A _creak_ behind him warned his ears that someone was coming up the steps of the clock tower. He turned his head slightly to catch view of Commnader Karl Weissdrake's burned visage as his comrade pushed open the trapdoor to climb into the room. The Marine nodded casually, then returned his eyes to the Titan line that encircled them.  
  
Weissdrake closed the trapdoor behind him, knees popping as he crouched low. "Anything new, John?" he asked, a hint of hopefulness in his otherwise scratchy voice.  
  
Roberts shook his head, answering in his peculiarly quiet voice. "They haven't grown bored with us yet, Karl. They just keep cycling their guard patrols between their companies; six-hour shifts, like they've been doing the entire time."  
  
"Damn," murmured Weissdrake, settling in beside his old battle buddy, his own binoculars skimming the countryside. "We're not going to catch a break this time, are we?"  
  
Roberts grunted in reply. "That's up to _them_."  
  
Weissdrake remained silent, but knew that the _them_ Roberts was referring to was _not_ the Titans. "No change on that front, either, John."  
  
"They'd better grow up fast, then," replied the Marine offhandedly, with just a fragment of noticeable anger in his voice. "Their stubbornness will get us all killed."  
  
In a similar fashion to what the Titans were doing with their patrol rotation, the Zeon were also using shifts to allow their people time to rest; Weissdrake was here to relieve Roberts, but understood the Marine's reluctance to go down and report to von Mellenthin. As Margul's __Kaempfer, brutalized by battle damage but still fully operational, its evil profile moving through the city like the biblical Angel of Death over Egypt, stomping over to relieve van Allen's equally-battered _Gelgoog___ Cannon, Weissdrake lamented at the tension that had settled in over them, clutching at their tenuous thread of hope, threatening to sever it completely.  
  
The running battle to get to Hameln had been bad enough; von Mellenthin's use of the treeline and the surrounding hills had kept the majority of the three Titans companies that had hounded them away, but they were down a lot of ammunition (thankfully, mostly Federal ammo they'd snagged from the remains of Cramer's 103rd), and no one's suit looked pristine anymore. Even the nigh-untouchable de la Somme's __Gouf_ Custom_ had taken a solid 120mm burst on the left arm, near the elbow joint, causing the little ace no end of grief to jury-rig back together again. But the battle damage and the loss of five suits during the fighting were nuisances compared to the rather nasty schism that had blossomed like a poison between General von Mellenthin and Colonel von Seydlitz.  
  
No one, not even de la Somme, knew the details of what happened, but sometime between the 10th's entry into Hameln and the running battle, the duality of the relationship between von Mellenthin and von Seydlitz had become __strained by something. Weissdrake could not only sense something was wrong, but neither of the two ranking Zeon officers had bothered to hide their sudden discomfiting. The morale of the 10th was dangerously low now, and all it would take to break them all, even the usually-indomitable Roberts, was one good push in the wrong direction.  
  
That, to Weissdrake, spelled trouble, because if he could tell, anyone could tell.  
  
"They'll come around," said Weissdrake. "They have to. We're running out of time."  
  
**Titans Line (east), Niedersachsen, ****Central Europe****  
****November 19, 0087  
  
"I really couldn't care less," said 1-54 Battalion Commander Captain Scott Armistead. "Time is a surplus right now. I'm content."  
  
"_You_ would be," spat Captain Garrett Sajer as he glared at the map of Hameln for the trillionth time in three days. It had not changed much.  
  
The 1st Battalion CO sighed, wondering again why it was **__he was being punished with Sajer's presence when it was Nico Palaccio's 2nd Battalion's Delta Company that had fucked up Tizard's trap. Oh, the heads were still rolling for _that_ clusterfuck: not only had Delta been reduced to a single platoon's worth of mobile suits, but the fact that a _single_ Zeek suit had crippled or killed most of the others meant that Tizard had just sustained the single greatest defeat of a Titans unit ever on Earth's soil, surpassing even the humiliating debacle at New Guinea. Armistead was willing to bet most of the space unit commanders had eaten _that_ bit of gossip up, Tizard supplanting Wilkins' failure. Whatever the repercussions of that fight, Tizard had been having a case of the ass ever since, enough that he had begun banishing from his presence those that displeased him.  
  
Sajer was not content to merely make snide commentary. "This whole shitstorm is just a goddamn __game, like chess or something. The Major's playing _chess_ with Mellenthin, instead of just letting us go __in and wipe these goddamn __hacks out! But the game means __everything now, not killing the Zeeks! If _I_ were in charge, the first thing I'd do is zap _that_ one---" He plunked a fingertip down on the spot on the map where the head and shoulders of a _Zaku___ IIF were visible, "---there, and then I'd snipe _that_ one---" The fingertip moved to where a __Dom Tropen stood sentinel, "---air assault from both sides of the river and swarm them. Simple as hell."  
  
"That's the Major's call to make, not ours, Garrett," said Armistead as he glanced over into Hameln. "He says 'wait', we wait. End of discussion."  
That _Kaempfer_ was on the move again, going through the same guard rotation the Zeeks had been using for three days like clockwork. It was getting a bit tedious, he admitted to himself, but unlike Palaccio's people, his would stand fast rather than risk falling into the kind of massacre the 103rd and Delta Company had jumped into with their overconfidence. Armistead realized later that they had made the same mistake time and again with the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ Division back during the War, and that history did repeat itself.   
  
"Chickenshit."  
  
"Look," snapped Armistead, his eyes still in his binoculars and not caring whether or not Sajer was referring to Tizard or himself, "you wanna test out your _Barzam_ on someone, test it on your own damn temper, Garrett. Hameln's tolerating the Zeon for now, but when they lift that restriction on us, it's gonna be over fast and quick and then that's _all_ for us. It'll be back to garrison while the space geeks kill the AEUG up in the Void, and then it'll be those Axis pricks, and then what? You may as well enjoy the field work, Garrett, since life behind a desk is looming pretty fucking close for all of us groundpounders." The head and torso of that dug-in _Zaku_ was still in its position within the city (it never moved), and the _Gelgoog___ Cannon was moving off to what everyone presumed was the Zeon laager point somewhere near the old church square. Hameln was a big enough town that at the angle most of 1st Battalion's spotters were getting, the Zeeks could still hide their suits.  
  
Sajer stomped out of the tent, ostensibly to go bug someone else with his opinion of the situation. Armistead continued scanning Hameln, which seemed pretty lively considering there were a lot of bad people with big guns running all through their business. __If only they knew how close a thing this is. . . he thought grimly, and he meant it on both sides. Sajer wasn't the only one chomping at the bit to go and kick some Zeek ass; Palaccio was hot to redeem 2nd Battalion's reputation after Horvath's screw-up, and so were most of his people. Some of the other platoons had lost people, too, on the running battle that had led them here in the first place.  
  
But more of them were scared, and it had taken two days for Armistead to get someone to talk about it. It wasn't Delta's near-destruction that had them spooked, but rather, the rumors of the fate of the 103rd that had them all acting like frightened children, hiding in their suits behind their guns and wondering if every trick they'd ever learned had just been thrown out the window. If the Zeon had found a means to circumvent the Minovsky effect to obliterate the 103rd, what was to stop them from doing the same to __them? How do you fight an enemy who isn't blind and deaf but _you_ are? The "how" of the Zeon's newfound technological supremacy was not as important as the "what", and that was something no one had been able to glean.  
  
Tizard blew off what happened to the 103rd as a fluke. Armistead was not so certain.  
  
The _Kaempfer_ finished its move into position, placing itself right where it needed to be so that anything trying to cross from the western half would have to face its firepower to do so. Armistead wasn't concerned by that: his people had _Gelgoogs_ covering them, and those were far more dangerous than the hit-and-run fast strike suit. There was also von Seydlitz's __Gouf__ Custom, standing tall as ever in spite of its mostly-superficial wounds, the black eagle visible as if to mock the world. If the Zeeks were planning for the same to happen to the 54th as what happened to the 103rd MI, Tizard was definitely giving them the time to set it all up.  
  
He let out a breath as he lowered his binoculars. "We're running out of time. . ."  
  
**Hameln****, Niedersachsen, Central Europe  
November 19, 0087  
  
The basement of the youth hostel was not an uncomfortable place at all. A long-time fixture of Hameln for the purposes of hosting the young from all corners of Europe for tours, schooling, or just for "homestays", the basement was more like a communal floor. It had its own latrine, its own kitchen (unstocked at the moment), and sleeping mats arranged in the main room almost like something out of Japan, though these mats were stuffed with feathers and not bamboo reeds. It also had doors that locked from the outside, and windows too narrow to crawl through; von Mellenthin had declared it perfect for his seven hostage's housing arrangements.  
  
The Commonality was unified again, but only by grief. Their eldest remained silent, but the other remaining six had allowed him to return to share in their mourning. The loss of one of their number had hit them all hard; it was one thing to feel the deaths of those not of their kind, but another altogether when it was one of themselves. Where once there were eight, only seven remained in the Sharing. In the three days they had been here, they were little closer to understanding fully what had occurred. In that aspect, they were children still.  
  
"It's not _right_," snarled one of them bitterly.  
  
"It was inevitable. When humans war, often those not directly involved are the victims," tried to explain another, but it sounded hollow even to her. They had all changed, and realized it. Their eldest had been right after all; battle had awoken something primal within them, a **__need for conflict instilled by the Federation that made them.  
  
"It still doesn't make it right," said the eldest of them, point-of-factly. He had long since stopped lavishing in their apologies for their doubting him. Their not being in the cockpits of those mobile suits was now a burden instead of a comfort; the warmth of the hostel basement did nothing to stem their common feelings of. . ._separation_ from the great war machines. Like the drug addicted when removed from the presence of their narcotic, they were all, as de la Somme would have put it, 'Jonesing'.  
  
One of the others glared at him. "From one who dallies with a dealer in death, you seem comfortable enough with it."  
  
The eldest shook his head. "No, just closer to having an explanation for it. The Lalah-entity never mentioned what death would cost Us. The Antares-entity is accustomed to it, but yet he still feels it as potently now as he ever did. His emotions are open to introspective analysis."  
  
"Are yours?"  
  
The eldest forced a smile. "Not quite yet. Just because I have some insight into it does not require that I be comfortable with it. The loss of one of Us will have severe ramifications, I believe, but I do not expect that to be the last of Us we lose before this is over. But those of Us that survive will be that much stronger for having done so."  
  
"The Mellenthin-entity will pay dearly for this," sobbed one of the inconsolable ones. Some were taking their Awakenings harder than others.  
  
"Would it be any different if it were the Federation making us fight for __them?"  
  
"Negative," replied one of the more calm ones. "This price would still have to be paid. The question remains as to whether or not humans would commit war if they knew what _this_ felt like."  
  
"Doubtless," responded the eldest. "The Antares-entity is the closest human I have encountered to suffering this same grievous pain of loss, and yet his propensity for warfare and killing has not abated any. The Mellenthin-entity would consider this emotive response a flaw in our designs, I am sure."  
  
One of them actually laughed, but it was a harsh and cruel sort of laugh, not one of true humor. "His own difficulties are the only thing keeping me from ending this torment now."  
  
"Yes," agreed one of the others between their tears. "May his own pains burn his soul, and that of his spite-filled brother!"  
  
"Their reactions to this predicament have been quite enlightening," concurred the eldest. "The Antares-entity is at a loss as to what could have happened between the Mellenthin-entity and the Seydlitz-entity, but their rift is widening by the day, and the effect it is having on these Spacenoids is intriguing."  
  
"Indeed. Perhaps this is the chance we have been waiting for."  
  
"But to do _what_? We cannot hide anymore, be it from the Space-people or these Titans. We are hunted now as assuredly as the Mellenthin-entity and his people are, and they no longer seem to hold a unity."  
  
"The threat to Us is real enough, but the Pattern has not yet formulated a true picture of what our fate is to be. I believe this game is not yet played out for either side." The eldest squeezed his eyes tight, then opened them wide as the door to the basement living room unlatched.  
  
The Commonality broke into its components, but as one they turned their heads as the door opened, each projecting their thoughts towards the identity of the intruder, anticipating it being de la Somme, or at worst one of the twin guards whose minds were practically a commonality of their own.  
  
It was neither.  
  
"Spare me," said Dietrich von Mellenthin as he took a step into the room. "Your minds may overpower lesser creatures', but you'll find my walls too steep to climb and my depths too deep to fall."  
  
The level of hate in the room exceeded nova-hot proportions. "What do __you want?" spat one of the children, her high-pitched voice making the tone more scathing than an adult's would have been.  
  
Von Mellenthin smiled ingratiatingly. "What a charmer you'll be. I have a proposal for you, __mein_ Kinder_, and I do not mean _you_ as in the individual __you, but more the likes of the group __you." He glanced at each of them, blue-green eyes cold despite the expression on his face. "Oh, come now, which of you is the spokesperson for you all?  Try not to insult my intellect. I've studied the files the Federation had in their computer in Heidelberg, and I know they've trained you all to operate as a unit. Units require leadership to finalize decisions and to be their mouthpieces. Which of you is tasked to do so?"  
  
After a moment of looking at the other children, the eldest stood up. "I am," said Erik.  
  
Von Mellenthin smiled, recognizing the one that had taken a liking to de la Somme. "Then I have a proposal for you, one leader to another. Would you care to step across the boundaries of a soldier to a maker of doctrines, and discuss with me matters that pertain to our futures?"  
  
**Aerzen****, Niedersachsen, **Central Europe****  
******November** 19, 0087**  
  
"There it goes again," groused one of the Titans communications people, a Corporal. She tapped the glass on her screen, watching as the hertz meter spiked once, then stopped. "What the hell _is_ that?"  
  
Her partner, a Tech Sergeant, rubbed his face and his exhausted eyes and groaned. "Dammit, Carol, it's a figment of your imagination, okay?"  
  
She reached over and slapped him on the shoulder; it wasn't hard, but it startled him so badly that he fell out of his chair, his headphones flying off his head. He landed with a curse. She stared, stupefied, then broke out laughing and couldn't stop. Shortly, so did her partner, still sitting on the floor of the room the Titans had converted into the commo suite. The release of tension was almost narcotic, as they both just broke down in gales of laughter that were unstoppable as the tides, tears streaming down their faces.  
  
It had not been an easy time for the Titans in spite of the lack of combat. Since the Zeon takeover of Hameln, all they had done is sit there, happy as clams underneath a Minovsky umbrella and an old Federation law. On the other hand, the Titans had worked their asses off to get Hameln locked down as tight as they could, they set up roadblocks and waystations and a revolving twenty-four hour guard roster, and then. . .**__nothing. The waiting was the hardest part of all this madness, but really only because Tizard was making it so. The Major had been so uptight these last two days that even the news of Lammersdorf's reactivation had not broken his mood. His last situation report to Dakar had not gone well, either, which of course meant it all rolled downhill onto those around him.  
  
But then, the commtechs knew things even Battalion COs like Armistead did not know. With the communications blackout over Europe finally being lifted, it had taken some days for the news of the death of Titans Captain Elias Fury in combat with the AEUG to reach Tizard's ears; that he had been dead for nearly a month was little comfort. The Major was not a man inclined to emotional outbursts in public, so he had retreated for several hours to an old storage shed far away from the Titans Command Post. No one saw anything, but there had been reports of the sounds of a grief-tortured soul coming from within that shed for several hours, and the devastation that was the shed's interior gave some credence to the rumor that Tizard had gone berserk at the news of the death of one of his more promising students.  
  
Whatever it was, it had not changed Tizard's plan to outlast the Zeon in Hameln. The wait continued, and with the exception of all incoming and outgoing traffic being subjected to a scrutinizing that most would have found uncomfortable, things went on as usual in Hameln.  
  
Wiping tears from his face, the communications tech on the floor finally got his labored breathing under some kind of control. "Any—anyway, what's the problem again?"  
  
"The problem---" stated a voice from behind—and above—him, "---is _you_ sitting on the floor."  
  
The tech craned his neck around and up, to see the neatly-creased black-and-red uniform of Golan Tizard standing on a space where there once was emptiness. The tech scrambled to his feet, trying to brush off his uniform surreptitiously.  
  
Tizard waved a hand as a show of indifference. "I heard the laughter, Sergeant, that's why I am here. I've had very little to laugh about recently, so I thought I would like to hear the joke. It would seem it's more of a 'you had to have been there' thing, am I correct?"  
  
"Y-yes sir!"  
  
"Then now that the joke is over," Tizard continued, brushing the sergeant aside and sitting in the vacant seat, "you can explain to me the 'problem' you've just alluded to."  
  
The sergeant blushed red. "You would have to ask the Corporal, sir," he said, mouth dry as a bone.  
  
Tizard turned his reptilian eyes on the other tech. "Would you please, Corporal?"  
  
She at least was wise enough to swallow once before answering: "It's really nothing, sir, except this hertz meter here. . ." she pointed at the screen, ". . .it keeps spiking for no apparent reason."  
  
Tizard's eyes narrowed further. "This meter. . .what is it _for_, exactly?"  
  
The other tech fielded that question. "It's the relay receiver console for the field surveillance crews, sir. We're using them to monitor radio traffic in Hameln."  
  
"There is a Minovsky field over Hameln, Sergeant," said Tizard coldly. "Why are these relays functioning?"  
  
"The Minovsky field prevents a direct intercept, sir, but we can still know if someone's talking on the radio by the fluctuation in the megahertz ranges. These receivers just say whether or not someone's transmitting or receiving, but the meat of the messages is blanked out by the radiation."  
  
"And someone is transmitting? And it is getting through the Minovsky umbrella?"  
  
The corporal nodded. "Well, we're not exactly __sure, sir. These spikes are intermittent, drastically so, and way too high in frequency to be anything involving a mobile suit's comm suite."  
  
Tizard sat up a little straighter. His eyes had not been on the techs, but rather the hertz meter. "Like that one just was?"  
  
The Sergeant's mouth dropped open in astonishment. The Corporal gave the senior NCO the finger (out of the eyesight of Tizard, or so she believed) and grinned. "Affirmative, sir."  
  
"So let me get this straight," Tizard tapped a pen tip on the screen, "someone or something is transmitting __or receiving messages at extreme megahertz range, a range beyond anything our own communications frequencies use, transmissions that _might_ be penetrating the Minovsky barrier, and the source is Hameln?"  
  
"That's. . .that's about the whole of it, yes, sir."  
  
"Hmmm, curious." Tizard leaned back in his chair. "I wonder who they're talking to, or trying to talk to. Get with the guard posts and tell them to set up more relays on the lines. I want to know every time this screen spikes, and how frequently. Does anyone else know about this?"  
  
"Just Captain Balke, sir," replied the tech.  
  
Tizard seemed to freeze in place. "When did _he_ know?"  
  
"Yesterday, sir." The Sergeant winced. "Just before you banished him from Aerzen."  
  
"Ahh, then no harm, no foul. He would keep his little secrets, just to hope we fail where he also did," Tizard stood. "Keep up the good work, soldiers. If this is what I think it is, then we are much closer to the end of all this than I thought. Tell the others that." The Major left the room, closing the door behind him, leaving two confused soldiers in his wake.  
  
Tizard shut the door, and then smiled, warmly and honestly. _I've just found your gambit, von Mellenthin, but my pieces are already moving. Balke is many things, but a loose cannon is only loose when it thinks it's being contained. I've already let him go to do his own work, and he will be the one who shows me the way._  
  
It had taken a long time for Tizard to realize the usefulness of the debauched Federation captain and his little crew of malcontents and retirees. The Titans were constrained by a code of ethics on Earth Tizard had been unwilling to break; Balke was not so pinioned. In a show of wrath, Tizard had kicked Balke and his fellow Federal regulars out of the combat area, on pain of incarceration never to return until summoned. They had left without too much of a fuss, but Tizard knew something had passed between himself and Balke at that last meeting, and that Balke understood. Tizard knew that evil recognized evil; he had faith Balke knew, too.  
  
Where the Federals were now, he had no idea, but the Titans Major had his guesses. If Balke's self-destructive tendencies were kept in check, they were most likely working behind the scenes in the countryside, trying to dig up what had happened to Cramer's people and their incredible tale of woe. The depositions of the Lieutenants Dyson had given Tizard some inkling that the Zeon had, indeed, stumbled on some way to circumvent the Minovsky effect in the field. Tizard knew that he was taking a chance that von Mellenthin was planning to do the same to them should Hameln be stormed by force, but his instincts told him that with the speed of Delta's attack and the subsequent lashing that Quillan Devereaux's Foxtrot Company and William Stark's Alpha Company had given them on their run from Steinbaum to Hameln, that the 10th could not pull off the same trick twice. Von Mellenthin's next ploy would be something else, and Tizard was content to let the Zeon General think he was being clever. This trap was one of Titan devising, and this time, no one would fuck it up for Golan Tizard. His only wish now was that these were AEUG scum instead of Zeon leftovers, but these would have to do.   
  
He vaguely wondered, as he stepped out of the building and into the gray of the outside air, if with the deaths of von Mellenthin and company, if it would cause some kind of pain to Char Aznable, far away in space. He hoped they would, the same kind of emotional agony he had felt when he found out that Elias Fury had been killed by AEUG operatives. Fury had been one of his best up-and-coming stars, a man who should have survived to go on to greater things than this; he would have traded a company of Sajers for one Fury in the space of the three heartbeats it would have taken to make certain the offer was not a joke. That he could have probably pinned the blame for Fury's death on Senas Jacobi more than he could Char Aznable was irrelevant; someone had to pay, and he had just made the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ the whipping post for the sins of others.  
  
Would Fury have approved of this kind of revenge? Probably not, Tizard knew, but considering Balke's absolute hatred for von Mellenthin, it still gave Tizard something he did not have before with the undisciplined Federation Captain: a common bond. Now they each had their reasons, and that made them allies of a sort. Tizard would rather have had an ally out of Balke than an enemy.  
  
The snow, which thankfully had not been falling as of late, crunched under his boots as he walked back towards the clock tower. __'Your enemy is what he eats; you must be the cook'.  
  
****__Solling** Range, Niedersachsen, Central Europe  
November 17, 0087**  
  
_"This is NOT how this was supposed to _go__!" roared Dietrich von Mellenthin over the radio on the open channel.  
  
Reinhardt von Seydlitz was not in a position to argue, as another 35mm burst from the left arm of his Gouf Custom_ snipped the lower leg off of a descending Titans GM II. The enemy suit fell to the ground heavily, just in time to be pounced on by Lucien McKenna's racing _Dom__ and run through with a heat saber, even as an azure beam of light streaked upward from what was undoubtedly their Gelgoog Cannon_; the line terminated in an explosion in the sky as the _Cannon_ claimed another catastrophic kill. The _Garudas__ that had arrived after the fight with that first group of Titans had ended had been combat-dropping suits at the rate of a platoon every few miles or so. Von Seydlitz knew what they were trying: it was a herding tactic. Every which way von Mellenthin was leading them, the Titans cut them off with another drop. Von Seydlitz estimated that for every black-and-red suit they killed, there were three more replacing it even before the slain suits stopped twitching. There were the better part of two companies on the ground now, chasing the fleeing 10th Panzerkaempfer_ through the foothills of the Harz mountains, the outskirts of the _Teutobergerwald__, and along the flood plains and marshes of the Weser river.  
  
Von Mellenthin's Zaku Hi-Mo_ wheeled to the left, skipping out of the coverage of the trees, closing on a touching-down Titans _Hizack_ before the other suit could bring its beam rifle to bear. The _Zaku's__ hand closed on the rifle's upper assembly as the Hizack_ moved to aim it; the _Zaku__ used its better leverage to push the rifle aside as a burst of energy lit up the sky, the rifle firing wide. Von Mellenthin's other hand dropped to its side, gripped the heat hawk positioned at the hip, and chopped upward with the heated blade. The Hizack__ staggered back instinctively, and the Zeon Zaku_ spun on a heel even as the heat hawk changed its aspect to a horizontal slash, cutting open the pilot's compartment on the _Hizacks__ middle torso, gutting the more advanced suit. The Titans suit crumpled to the earth, its pilot most likely a smoking ruin. Lines of tracer fire stitched the earth around von Mellenthin's suit, and the nimbler-than-usual Zaku Hi-Mo__ sprinted back into the cover of the trees, as more Titans suits landed further away, beyond the Zeon range to kill.  
  
They had been running for five hours now, pausing only to allow the slower suits to catch up with the quicker ones, like Margul's Kaempfer_, which was racking up an impressive kill list as it led the Zeon column through the terrain northwards. Von Seydlitz was considering the possibility of using some natural feature of the Lower Saxon countryside for a defensive position, to give the Titans something more to think about, when Margul's voice came in through the Minovsky static: "Clearing."  
  
"_Verdammt_," cursed von Seydlitz. Open ground was their undoing in this instance. Without the cover of the hills and forest, the Titans would pick them off like flies; especially since von Seydlitz had discovered that the damnable _Hizacks__ had hover-capability like the GM IIs did. Only the Foxe twins' Gelgoog Jaegers_ had even close to that much thruster power, and even they could sustain no more than a long 'jump'. He keyed his radio. "Eagle One to Lion One, over."[i]  
  
Von Mellenthin's voice sounded strained, as if he were holding back his temper by force of will alone. "Lion One, go!"  
  
"_Herr General,_ it might be wise to consider finding an easily defended position before we reach open ground."  
  
The _Zaku Hi-Mo_ cut loose with one of its captured Federation 100mm machine guns, sparing the ammo in its MMP-80s for later; von Seydlitz could hear the chattering thunder, a different tempo than those of Zeon make, of the large machine gun's bark even through the static. "Negative, Eagle One!" barked von Mellenthin. "We're driving onward!"  
  
Von Seydlitz's eyebrows knitted in confusion. "Understood, Lion One, but I must remind---" a tree in front of von Seydlitz's _Gouf Custom__ exploded into a thousand flaming cinders. He ducked and swerved out of the way, deeper into the forest area, bolts of light chasing him, "---the General that open ground only serves to---"  
  
"I KNOW that, Reinhardt!" snapped von Mellenthin. "I just don't want to get pinned down in one location this far from our Phase Two objective! Find us a hideaway point and we'll meet up there to discuss this further. . .my God! Look at them!"  
  
Von Seydlitz turned the great mono-eye of his battle-scorched suit towards the west, and his jaw went slack with amazement. "It---the Titans have stopped!_"  
  
"More fools, they! Here's your chance, _Oberst__," said von Mellenthin. "Get us out of here before they start moving again!"  
  
Von Seydlitz keyed his map interface. "There! All units, proceed to grid point Delta-Sierra five-oh-five-nine-six-six-three-one! I do not care how you get there, just get there! Eagle One, out!" He wheeled the Gouf Custom_ to the right and plunged deeper into the darkness of the forest, high-caliber tracer fire lighting the paths he left behind.  
  
  
  
"Heya, Reinhardt!!" sang out Antares de la Somme, his _Gouf Custom__ waving its right arm at him as he broke through the last of the trees to the link-up point, a natural depression ringed by a cluster of high-top trees that would make it difficult to spot by air. "They got me, the sons of bitches! Check this_ out!"  
  
Von Seydlitz noted the torn-up elbow of de la Somme's suit. "Very pretty, Kommandant. I presume it was dutifully avenged?"  
  
"Yeah. Got me a score of twelve; that's one better than Starkweather and two better than Vlady. Listen, Deet's waiting for you over yonder, something about a powwow with you ASAP, ya know?"  
  
"Yes, Antares, I know. I am on my way. What are the Titans up to?"  
  
"Nothin'. They're just sitting there, waiting for a sign from God or something," the younger ace's _Gouf Custom__ leaned closer to von Seydlitz's conspiratorially. "Guess what? I've got it on good authority that He ain't talking to them."  
  
Von Seydlitz almost smiled. "Then I guess they will be waiting quite a while. Get that arm checked out; without it, you are down your seventy-five millimeter, your shield, and your thirty-fives. That is unacceptable, Kommandant__."  
  
"Right, gotcha, arm and an oil change." De la Somme's suit moved off with another wave of its right hand. "Lemme know how it's gonna go, okay?"  
  
"I will." Von Seydlitz walked his Gouf Custom_ eastward, red mono-eye scanning for the familiar silhouette of von Mellenthin's _Zaku Hi-Mo_. It was not hard to find, since it was nicely set up in the center of the natural depression, with its hatch open and blue light streaming from the cockpit interior.   
  
Von Seydlitz walked his suit to as close as he could get to von Mellenthin's, standing it face to face with the slightly shorter _Zaku__, popping open his own hatch as his suit came to a halt. He climbed out with a smooth sort of motion, hands gripping the upper rim of the cockpit while he kicked his legs out of the doorway; at the terminus, he simply let go, and when his boots touched the metal of the hatch, he was standing, a matter of simple acrobatics under gravity. "I am here, Dietrich."  
  
The General smiled at his XO and extended a hand as von Seydlitz crossed the makeshift bridge their open hatchways made. "About time, too, Reinhardt. You've been a bit behind on the clock today, haven't you?"  
  
"One could see it that way," shrugged von Seydlitz, taking von Mellenthin's hand in one of his own. "You know what happened."  
  
"Yes. I'm sorry, Reinhardt, I truly am. It must have been hard for you, just as it has been for Vladimir and Antares. They lost men, too."  
  
Von Seydlitz's eyes grew distant in his exhausted face; what once was called thin was practically gaunt now. "I made them pay, Dietrich. A whole Titans Company suffered for Dalyev and Haskell, and I do not think I am finished yet." He crouched down so that he could look into von Mellenthin's cockpit. Everything was upside-down, but that was not even an inconvenience worth noting. "If you would be so kind as to bring up the regional map for viewing? I have some scant few ideas that may get us out of this predicament alive."  
  
Von Mellenthin complied, and the blue light-emitting screen changed into a riot of colors as the relief map popped on the display. "Here's the situation as it stands, since the last update that Antares piped through the unit FBCB2* about five minutes ago. We've got a Titans Company here, and another one here," von Mellenthin pointed with a finger, indicating two different positions to the southwest and southeast of their own location. "Oberstabsfeld_ Ogun confirmed further Titans units here, here, and here," his finger tapped three more locations, "to our north, northeast, and northwest, and closing rapidly."  
  
Von Seydlitz nodded, face grim. "About three companies' worth, plus the leftovers from the one we savaged earlier. They are trying to cut us off and entrap us. We can use this to our advantage. If we maneuver to this valley here," he pointed at a spot in the eastern Harz range, "it would force them to come at us from one direction; we can mass fire at the entry point and set charges on the valley walls to negate their aerial---"  
  
Von Mellenthin shook his head. "We haven't the supplies or the ammunition to fight that kind of action, Reinhardt. It won't work, and the risk to the children is too great."  
  
Undeterred, von Seydlitz shifted gears. "Very well, then there is always the hit-and-fade, which I have discovered they are not accustomed to dealing with in terrain like this. We stay within the forest range and obliterate them platoon by platoon, taking their weapons and ammunition until they---"  
  
Again, von Mellenthin cut him off. "Our ability to maneuver decisively in close quarters is reduced. Margul's _Kaempfer_ is reaching critical fuel level, and the Twins aren't much better off. If we get pinned down with just foot speed, they'll catch us, and it still won't enable us to break free and escape with the NewTypes intact. We need something else, Reinhardt, something _fixed__, something vulnerable_."  
  
Perturbed, the younger officer straightened his back and looked at his brother, deadpan. "I will then presume that you have an idea already, one that involves the additional security of eight Federation war weapons?"  
  
"Seven," corrected von Mellenthin, "and they are MY war weapons now. We've come a long way to get those children, Reinhardt; they MUST survive until Nemesis is complete."  
  
"With all due respect, _Herr General_," said von Seydlitz, trying not to choke on his own rising anger at having two _workable_ plans shot down for a _maybe_ plan that's only goal was the survival of _seven__ kids, "I do not think the continued existence of these things__ supercedes the continued combat survival and capabilities of the 10th Panzerkaempfer__ Division."  
  
"Stop being a ninny, Reinhardt. These seven mean everything to the success of Nemesis and the 10th Panzerkaempfer Division. Besides, if you had not gone traipsing through Niedersachsen in the first place, this difference in opinion of the import of these children would not be happening, would it?"  
  
Von Mellenthin's tone of voice was matter-of-fact, but to von Seydlitz it felt as though he had just been slapped with a handful of fishhooks. "Dietrich, I hope you are not insinuating that I deliberately goaded that Titans unit into following me to Steinbaum."  
  
Von Mellenthin looked him dead in the eyes. "If that's how you choose to see it, then it must be so. Listen to me, Reinhardt: these seven children must be alive in order for Nemesis to have a chance of gaining what I need it to. You must see this as a fact."  
  
Von Seydlitz shook his head emphatically. "I cannot believe I am hearing this from you. This was not what we planned out for Nemesis, any more than the change in destination!"  
  
"Plans change_!" snapped von Mellenthin angrily. "Especially plans that are eight years old! I'm down a NewType now thanks to _your__ need to revenge Dalyev and Haskell, and on top of that_ I've lost Kerr, Lacerta, and Reiter, _and__ their suits! Nemesis now treads on a very thin line thanks to your_ fuck-up!"  
  
Had von Seydlitz not been who he was, he would have recoiled in shock. Instead, he simply stood up, grey eyes alight with anger. "How dare you, _sir_? I have performed every aspect of my duty as ordered, while under fire. My _Battalion__ is DEAD__, Dietrich! And you sit there and believe I lured the Titans to Steinbaum deliberately__?? Pray tell, what have these Federation superbeings done for you_ except take up cockpit space, subvert your _brother's mind_, and _DIE_ in the course of losing a fine pilot and a _priceless_ mobile suit!?" For von Seydlitz, this was quite the rant.  
  
Von Mellenthin slammed his fists down on top of his console, the screen winking out momentarily as two equally-sized dents appeared in the metal 'dashboard'. "Damn you, Reinhardt, this is _bigger__ than one mobile suit,__ OR it's goddamn low-gene PILOT__!!"  
  
"Then if these children mean so much to you," pleaded von Seydlitz, "LISTENto me! The only way we are going to get out of this is to FIGHT---"  
  
"DAS REICHT!! ENOUGH_!" roared von Mellenthin, seething outwardly, his aura becoming volatile; von Seydlitz could see it ten feet away if he had to, and his internal warning sense activated.  
  
The General took a deep breath and let it out in a futile attempt to calm himself. "We WILL fight them, Reinhardt, but first I need _time__, and I need these children alive__ to guarantee Nemesis, or it's all for nothing. I need time more than I need a body count."  
  
Von Seydlitz knew he had lost this fight; his brother was more stubborn than a hundred bulls once he made up his mind. "Then I hope your judgment in this matter is correct."  
  
"It is. Prepare the troops to move out in five minutes. We make for _Hameln___."  
  
Von Seydlitz blinked. "_Hameln___? In the name of Zeon, Dietrich, why?" He began to seriously contemplate the possibility that his brother had gone mad.  
  
Von Mellenthin stared at his map, not looking his stunned brother in the face. "A bargaining chip."  
  
Von Seydlitz nodded. "I suppose it will do for a final resting place."  
  
"Better there than here, Reinhardt." Von Mellenthin's tone was amply noted by von Seydlitz as being 'dead serious'.  
  
**Hameln****, Niedersachsen, Central Europe  
November 19, 0087  
  
A snowball flew past Reinhardt von Seydlitz's face, missing his nose by centimeters and interrupting the same reverie he'd been mulling over for the last three days. He closed his ice-grey eyes for a brief instant, swiveled his head to the right, and then opened them again, glaring daggers at the child who had dared lob a snowball at him. The little brat, who might've been six at the oldest, shrieked and ran off with the scampering quickness commonplace to all children. . .**__and de la Somme, he mused. He stood up from the cold steel park bench that faced the frozen-over fountain, spun on a bootheel, and strode off, knowing the child would be back with friends sooner rather than later, and von Seydlitz was in no mood to play Uncle to the neighborhood spawnlings today. He was no de la Somme, with his incessant need to please children; of late, children were becoming the death of him.  
  
A flock of pigeon, whose brethren had flown southwards but they had remained behind for the winter to get fat on the offerings of the locals, scattered in a cloud of cooing and dirty feathers as von Seydlitz walked through the space they had been occupying without a care as to their feelings.   
  
Tapping his boots one at a time on the top stair of the landing to rid the treads of packed-in snow, he opened the door of the Zeon Command Post, noticing that the heat had been turned up again in the building. "Why does it feel like a ring of Hell in this place?"  
  
"Maybe it's your cold nature, sir," commented a sleepy Gary van Allen, who had come off shift less than two hours ago. "Or the General's, sir."  
  
"Not likely, _Gefreiter_. Where is _Generalmajor_ von Mellenthin?"  
  
Van Allen waved a hand in the direction of the stairs. "Down in the cellar. Again, sir."  
  
Von Seydlitz turned his hawklike gaze on the spiraled stairs. "Any notion as to why he spends so much time in the communications room?"  
  
"That's---" van Allen yawned, "---above my pay grade, sir. I figured if anyone knew, it'd be you, sir."  
  
"I wish that were the case, __Gefreiter. Sleep now; the town is secure." Von Seydlitz took a good, long look at the stairs, then made his decision. It was time to come to an understanding with his King, one way or another.  
  
He was halfway down the hallway when he heard the sound of voices. There was one in particular he recognized, and though his outward demeanor did not change, every hyperacute nerve in his body suddenly went into an adrenaline overdrive. With a low snarl, he reached for the door handle.  
  
  
  
Von Mellenthin cut off the shortwave radio with a flick of a fingertip. "There. It's settled. They will get my message in due course to whomever needs it."  
  
Erik nodded from the seat next to the Zeon General. "Yes."  
  
"I knew you would see things my way. It's better for all of us if it does work, I think." Von Mellenthin smiled at the boy, like a pleased lord whose servant has done him well.  
  
"Your arrangement is sound. I will inform the others, and they will understand. Everyone's needs are met, with little risk of disappointment." Erik's eyes met von Mellenthin's without fear. He, at least, now knew what Nemesis was all about, and that knowledge had made him an equal with the General, and no longer a hostage to be used as a shield. With this deal, it put the Commonality where it needed to be: in the role of treasures. Erik was content with that.  
  
"Then come," said von Mellenthin, pleased beyond measure, "I will take you back to---"  
  
"---to _where_?" rasped a voice from the door as it flew open, admitting von Seydlitz, whose face was a mask of rage and horror.  
  
Von Mellenthin stared coolly at his brother, while Erik shrank deeper into his chair reflexively.  
  
Von Seydlitz walked slowly towards them, eyes raking them both. "So that is what this is all about, is it? I heard part of your little conversation, Dietrich. Is this all Nemesis is to you? Is this what we have to endure Hell to achieve? Slavery? To _Axis_?"  
  
"It's not a matter of slavery, Reinhardt," explained von Mellenthin. "It's a matter of military security and survival. Promises have been made that must be kept for the good of all to succeed where they will."  
  
"And who told you _that_? Your own insight, or Haman Kahn?" accused von Seydlitz. "I cannot believe you have needlessly trapped us all here for _this_ idiocy, Dietrich!"  
  
Von Mellenthin steepled his fingers. "I'm not going to sit here and justify my actions to you, _Oberst_. The decision has been made. Negotiations between the AEUG and Axis broke down because that imbecile Char Aznable, the so-called heir to Zeon Daikun's misbegotten legacy, could not come down from his high horse and accept the reality of the situation, and all because the AEUG has won a few piecemeal battles against the Titans and Char believes he's now invincible. I am not so blind to the obvious, and I am in a better position to bargain with our Axis brethren."  
  
"_You cannot TRUST her!_" howled von Seydlitz, his Command voice like a thunderclap that echoed through the hallway and the stairs.  
  
Von Mellenthin was, of course, immune to the effects. Von Seydlitz fell to his knees and desperately grasped one of von Mellenthin's hands in both of his own, like a supplicant to a higher lord (which, essentially, was the case). "Please, _listen_, Dietrich! That scheming bitch _killed_ her own father! No patricide can be trusted, any more than a regicide can be!" He squeezed von Mellenthin's hand as hard as he could, knowing that he could make his older foster brother feel it. "No one ever proved that Degin Zavi killed Old Man Daikun; I _know_ she killed Maharaja Kahn! She will _betray us_!"  
  
Von Mellenthin squeezed his brother's hands in return. "She has what I need to win, Reinhardt, and I have what she wants: something that the AEUG could not give her and the Titans have to create artificially and will only give up under duress. I have a bevy that I can simply give away in equitable trade."  
  
Von Seydlitz's desperately wild grey eyes slid over to look at Erik, who had stopped cowering. "NewTypes."  
  
"Yes. The ultimate currency." Von Mellenthin covered their clasped hands over with his free one. "Haman will give up control of __legions to obtain these seven children for herself."  
  
Von Seydlitz continued to look at Erik. "And what do __you get out of this?"  
  
Erik met his gaze with his expansive green eyes. "A chance."  
  
Von Seydlitz was trembling, partly in shock, partly in rage, partly in an emotion that anyone else would call __fear but one that he could not put a name to. "This cannot be happening. . ."  
  
"Think of it, Reinhardt," said von Mellenthin, as the room got a bit colder and his voice equally chilling, "the chance to __command again, in the field. Haman knows her alliance with the Titans will not last, though she would never admit as much; what we offer her is a swift and easy victory instead of a protracted battle, in addition to access to the seven most valuable souls in the Earth Sphere. She _wants_ us on her side, brother mine, and she will give up the worth of Zeon for it!  
  
"And besides," von Mellenthin's smile got a little more rapine, "she's a fascinating creature, from what I've deduced. I __may just let her live."  
  
Von Seydlitz, who had been staring intently at the young NewType in the other seat, swiveled his head towards his brother, eyes as wide as saucers, mouth agape. "This is. . .this is _insane_!"  
  
The leonine smile slid off of von Mellenthin's face. "Perhaps, but that's the way it is going to be. Make it happen and it will succeed."  
  
Von Seydlitz somehow found the strength to free one of his hands. "Dietrich, this is a gamble we cannot possibly win. That bitch will kill anyone who ever gets close to her, even those she considers to be her allies and her friends. We can do this _without_ Axis, without the risk, and we don't need _them_," he pointed at Erik with a clawlike finger, "to do it! We have the breakout we need to leave this pesthole of a Lower Saxon low-class gene pool and finish Nemesis as we originally planned! I can give you this __without needing to prostrate ourselves to a _traitor_!"  
  
Realizing that von Seydlitz was not going to agree to this with all his heart and soul, von Mellenthin let go of his brother's other hand, placed both his hands on his knees, and leaned very, very close to von Seydlitz's face. In a monotone, very slowly, he spoke: "At this point in time, __Oberst von Seydlitz, I need these seven children and that 'traitor' more than I need __you."  
  
The world, which was once von Seydlitz's plaything, suddenly went into a dizzying darkness for the Zeon Colonel. When he had been fifteen years of age, he had been smashed to the ground in defeat on the Field of May by von Mellenthin's warhammer, but the blows of that heavy weapon had not damaged him nearly so badly as when the older of the two had used his gauntleted fists to crumple von Seydlitz's helmet about his face until he had lost consciousness. The words von Mellenthin had just spoken to him hurt even worse than his fists that day had. "__Ist__ das alles, sobald und zukuenftiger Koenig?" _Is that all, once and future King?_  
  
"Tomorrow night, __Oberst. Prepare the men." Von Mellenthin knew he had just wounded his brother's pride deeply, perhaps more deeply than he ever had before, and he was no stranger to causing his too-serious foster sibling pains of the soul. With one last long gaze into the pain, too rare and too precious to ignore, in von Seydlitz's ice-grey eyes, von Mellenthin spun around his chair, turning his back on the Colonel. "You have your orders. You are free to go, __Graf von Seydlitz."  
  
Von Seydlitz was not certain where he found the will to stand to his feet after this. His mind, a vast expanse of memories, experiences, and knowledge that would have made Mensa scholars reel, could not piece together the vocabulary to even remotely describe the loss of trust they had just displayed. This had never, in all their lives, occurred before; even his earliest memory of Dietrich von Mellenthin, their first meeting when the scion of the House of Hessen had set his dog on the scion of the House of Brandenburg-Preussen as a __test of the worth of his blood, _that_ incident had not left him with such a keen sense of betrayal, disappointment, and utter helplessness combined with a _hopelessness_. Nevertheless, despite the crushing weight that felt heavier than New Koenigsberg itself, he did stand to his feet. "Dietrich, do not make this---"  
  
"_I SAID **GET OUT!!!**_" bellowed von Mellenthin even more loudly than von Seydlitz had minutes earlier. The windows two flights up the stairs rattled from the acoustical force of it. Erik actually recoiled from the shock of it, his already-giant eyes growing wider as he fought the urge to simply flee the room.  
  
Von Seydlitz's lips compressed into a line so tight they virtually disappeared. He saluted, as was proper form that even on his worst day he would not have forgotten, and then turned on his bootheel and left, detesting losing as a not-too-distant cousin to failure, which was anathema to an Elector-Prince. As he walked up the stairs, each footstep weighing twice as heavy as it should, he began to wonder if this was the wound that would kill him, slowly and relentlessly. _Thrown away.___ It has all been thrown away for a dream that will not become a reality. I can do nothing now except what I can to try, but how can I give this mission my best if I cannot convince myself of its tactical value? Damn you, Dietrich, for making me doubt myself.   
  
An ancient quote from Friedrich von Schiller summed up his thoughts exactly: __'With stupidity, the gods themselves contend in vain.'  
  
**********************************************  
  
To be continued in Chapter 19. . .  
  
  
Author's Notes (I need to do more of these kind of things; everyone else does, and it makes life easier. I think I'll do these from this point onward):  
  
*FBCB2 – Force XXI Battle Command Brigade-and-Below; an integrated battle system that transforms an armored unit of individual components into a unified force whereby each individual unit functions under the same information as the others. Combines GPS, real-time situational awareness of the battlefield, universal IFF encoding/iconography, communications, and integrated logistics support. No, I did not make this up.  
  
Mentions of stuff from Redcomet's (__What Cost For Freedom?) and Zinegata's (__Warriors in the Shadows) works again. Should be easy enough to spot. I figure when BK catches his works up with the Zeta era, I'll be plugging him in, too. Here's forewarning for future chapters: expect to see mentions of Neo-Aztlan colony and the 505th Falling Eagles unit from 0079 that belong to kishiria and debuted in her fic __Quinto__ Sol, which is a badass read. So the Pattern will ensnare yet more UC goodness for its use; I've always been something of a user, anyway.   
  
His Shadow's Corner of FAQ Answers: This chapter, not only being VERY late in the making, was not an easy one to write for me. The dynamics of taking two characters who, in my skull, complement each other perfectly in virtually all aspects because they are, essentially, my superego and my ego (and Antares, my weirdo id personified), and forcing a rift between them and thereby staining their once-harmonious relationship was, in essence, me sort of betraying myself to accomplish. Unfortunately, conveying such a sense of the loss of trust between the two where once it was that same sense of trust that made them a force to be reckoned with, both in their functionally Nietzschean society of origin and on the battlefield, which is the ultimate test of trust, that sense of a breaking of faith is so damn HARD to emote in just words. The language is simply lacking in words that can convey what it has to feel like to have someone so close to you that they seem AS close as your own skin suddenly not be able to be trusted. How would that be? How much would that HURT? And then, to place beings like these in that position, when all their lives ruthlessness and a. . .__retreat from the "sensitive" emotions commonplace in people (even in ultra-macho males like soldiers) to the point where their lack of presence makes them seem more inhuman even than they are, are suddenly forced to cope with what happens when they have to suffer through it, especially since the dynamics of their relationship went against that same social programming (except on the Field of May, where anything went). . .whoa. How far do I go with it, and still have it seem believable? Did I succeed? I've no idea, you tell me.   
  
I like to think that in such a situation, each would put up something of a barrier against an outward show of just how DEEPLY this is affecting them; with Seydlitz, it was easy, he's a very stoic sort of guy, though his omnipresent shield does have cracks (as seen with the deaths of Haskell and Dalyev), but this was even worse than THAT for him. I figured for him, if it reached his EYES, it was reaching his soul, the one he denies the "sensitive" emotions from, and now he has this great burden to have to cope with. His face won't change much (though when it does it seems drastic enough), but his EYES can be quite expressive, so I used those for him and just hoped that it worked as an emotive tool (I can't step outside "the Box" with my own work). With Mellenthin, he's all about a contained sort of anger, the kind of anger someone who's been promised something and then scorned feels, a kind of neverending "I will make you PAY!" kind of rage/hate vindictivity colors everything he does and everything he says. In spite of the fact that he can charm snakes when he wants to, he's a temper-tantrum waiting to happen ALL THE TIME, smouldering in an ancient despising of the way things ARE. Now, with this, it became apparent that his volcanic anger is both weapon and shield for him, a lash and a rod; he uses it to punish, but also to HIDE BEHIND; harm him, and he goes ballistic, usually vocally. Seydlitz not trusting his plan is, to him, a lot like taking a thornbush and beating him across the face and shoulders with it, and he responds in a cruel fashion, the cruelest he knows of, because he's about the only person in the universe who can get under Seydlitz's shield because he knows Seydlitz's weaknesses better than even Seydlitz does. But it always has to be bent around this ever-present temper, it can never be subtle with Mellenthin. . .but then, it CAN, but only for HIMSELF. His fight earlier with Seydlitz was really more a matter of business for them, a "clearing the air" after the eight-year absence from each other over a single order in the middle of a battle. . .whoopdee-doo, they beat on each other a bit, make up, and it's all good again. This time, it's something more blatant between them, but for Mellenthin, he can hide how much it hurts HIM behind the anger, and project it through the anger at the same time. This gives him the air of "I don't give a fuck what YOU think, just serve your purpose and get out of my fucking space", even when what he's saying or doing is really picking at his bizarre sense of conscience. Mellenthin's face, often described as leonine in feature, is very expressive, so whenever he raises his voice it's easy to picture his face sort of twisting into a pissed-off cat-like snarling mask, complete with the blazing bluish-green eyes, bared teeth, throbbing veins on the forehead and temples, and face going all flushed, all INSTANTANEOUSLY and AS OFTEN AS HE WANTS, and it will happen no matter HOW he's actually feeling as long as it's NEGATIVE. Frustrated, hurt, confused, mad, displeased, it doesn't really matter with him as long as the source is a negative; when he's in a good mood, he's very calm, very soothing, and very confident in himself and his abilities (case in point, the news interview in Mannheim). Unlike de la Somme, whose every emotion is practically an open book in his eyes, face, body movements and language, speech, etc., Mellenthin's only real outlet of expression is with anger, but boy, is it a useful outlet, indeed. Besides, de la Somme is another story all his own. He gets his own piece of the FAQ Corner later. ^_^  
  
But any way you slice it, it's all Mellenthin's fault and he knows it, so he lashes out because he feels guilty over first accusing Seydlitz of bringing the Titans down on them prematurely, and then again claiming that as an asset, Seydlitz is unnecessary to him.  
  
And then I take all of this angst and DOWNPLAY it for the characters outwardly (notice, however, how many times eyes come into play, though), because that's how THEY would act outwardly, even the anger-driven Mellenthin, because they have forms to maintain, even in the midst of overwhelming emotion that would reduce anyone I know (myself included cause I'm a sissy like that) into heart-wrenching sobs, they don't have that luxury. As almost any expert in emotional psychology will tell you, the inability to express emotion, to "let go" in a way that is both refreshing and rehabilitating, will turn a person into a sociopath in pretty short order, unable to cope with society as a whole. It just so happens that that exact reaction is an invaluable trait in a person whose purpose is to rule over others, because one of the abilities of the quasitypical ruler is the APPEARANCE of an immunity to a great many human emotions that may cloud judgment (the reverse is also true, and that's where the fine line lays).  
  
Now I gotta figure out a way to FIX it. We'll just have to see, won't we? _


	20. Chapter 19

**MSG: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed**

**Chapter 19**

**Titans Line (East), Niedersachsen, Central Europe**

**November 20, 0087**

"'Morning, Garrett," piped in the voice of Captain Scott Armistead, shattering the hazy wake-up fugue Sajer was in. The other Titan grunted noncommittally and _plunk_ed his shaving kit down on the side of the water buffalo the Titans had set up to keep the troops hydrated; it was also the battalion shaving area, since it provided running water. No grand luxuries here on the cordon like there were in Aerzen, though the companies had settled into a pattern of cycling for relief-in-place so that at least every three days each would be able to spend a day away from the line. Command staff, on the other hand, was stuck here except for the requisite evening briefings with Major Tizard.

Armistead razed a long line of whiskers off his face with a practiced hand; if the cold water was bothering him, he didn't show it. Sajer wanted to puke, or scream, or both. He detested shaving in cold water, and he winced as some of the splash-over from his cup soaked his hand in ice. _This will not be pleasant._

"Still," continued Armistead, taking another slash out of his beard with a scratchy _whisk_ sound, "no change on the front."

Sajer finally found the will to talk without allowing his teeth to chatter. "What do the photos say about that?"

Armistead shrugged. "Haven't seen the last batch yet. Gonna wait until the briefing with the company COs in a few minutes. If you want to go over them, I'll wait till you're done."

Sajer's voice was a muffled shriek of protest as he buried his face into a water-soaked rag. His eyes were wide when he took the rag down; his face was red-blotched from the chill. "What is it the Major always rattles on about?" He gestured towards Aerzen with his dripping rag. "'Four eyes better than two?'"

"Something like that, yeah," replied Armistead lazily, packing his kit up. "I'll have coffee waiting for you when you get there."

"Will it be _hot_?" snapped Sajer. He'd torn a strip out of one of the enlisted folks yesterday for lukewarm coffee. The mistake had not yet been repeated.

Armistead smiled thinly. "Maybe."

**Kassel, Hessen, Central Europe**

**November 20, 0087**

"Try not to take this as disrespect, ma'am," piped the voice of the maintenance Chief Warrant Officer just behind her right shoulder, "but you look exceptionally stupid standing there with yer jaw unhinged."

1st Lieutenant Angela Novak-Dyson heard the words as though they were shouted from a distance. Her attention's true focus was visual, her eyes sweeping up and down the target of her gaze. "This. . ._this_ is----"

The Chief beamed, but she didn't see it. "Not a bad bit o' work, is she? Bit of a bitch getting the macroactuators to align, but otherwise not too tough a scuffle."

Dyson's head cranked around, her wide eyes locking on the Chief. "This isn't _MY_ suit!!!" she practically wailed at him.

The Chief's melancholy eyes narrowed just a smidge around the edges. "Say again, ma'am?"

Dyson resisted the urge to throttle him. Her voice lowered, and she spoke with simple determination. "_This_," she pointed at the hangar berth in front of them, "is _not. . .my. . .suit._"

"Is that so?"

"YES!" Dyson almost stamped her foot on the ground in anger. "You called and said _my_ suit was fixed! That's why I let my husband run off with Captain Balke and his hooligan friends to God only knows where! That's why I'm _here_!"

The Chief looked over at the mobile suit, back at her, and then shrugged. "Well, beggars can't be choosers, can they?"

"Who did the work?" Dyson's voice was a whisper.

"Tech Specialist Rourden. You wanna speak to him about it?"

"Indeed I do." She ran a weary hand through her bangs, shoving them out of the way as she craned her neck upwards to look at the mobile suit in front of her. She shivered as the Chief bellowed like a war horn for Rourden, right beside her ear, but she remained fixated firmly on the "mistake" standing in front of her. As a scrawny young man in oil-stained coveralls came walking over, coffee cup in his hand, the Chief left them both to attend to other business.

Rourden looked the part of a grease monkey, complete with the sooty stains on his cheeks no amount of showers could ever seem to remove, the permanent calluses on his dexterous fingers that could still find their way through mazes of fittings and wiring harnesses and couplers into little nooks nothing else could reach, and a seeming disregard for whatever he might wipe from his hands onto his light blue coveralls. His eyes were dark and melancholy, his hair was a dirty mass cemented in place by sweat, time, the shape of his now-unworn hat, and several forms of mechanical fluid, and he did not smile. He did, however, salute, even as his eyes looked Dyson up and down.

Dyson returned the salute, her eyes watching his. He looked like the spitting image of the Chief who'd just left them, only about four decades younger.

"Mind if I smoke, ma'am?" Rourden broke the silence first, voice not exactly friendly but not unpleasant either. He sounded like someone who knew he was in trouble, curious as to why, but too proud to ask about it directly. He didn't wait for her to say if she minded or not at any rate, since he was already lighting the cigarette when he asked the question.

Dyson knew this type well. "No bullshit, Specialist Rourden: what were your orders regarding the two damaged 103rd mobile suits I had sent here?"

Rourden blinked as his inhaled, turning his head to breathe out and not blow it directly into her face. "Fix the Kai in forty-eight hours or less."

Dyson nodded. "So why is there a headless GM Kai," she pointed just over Rourden's left shoulder, "over there, and an intact GM Command," her hand jerked a thumb back over her right shoulder, "behind me, instead of the other way around?"

Rourden glanced over his shoulder at the headless GM Kai. "Couldn't fix it, ma'am, not in forty-eight hours or less." He took a sip from his coffee cup. "Not enough parts for a Kai, and definitely no head lying around waiting for an empty neck anyway. I talked to the Chief and he said do something to make it better, so---"

"So," broke in Dyson, exasperated, "you did what you _could_ do in forty-eight hours and took the hands off of _my_ suit and---"

"---and got the GM Command up," Rourden didn't quite grin. "Macroactuators were---"

"---a bitch, yes, I got that." Dyson sighed. "Tell me about the GM-G."

"She works," replied Rourden around his cigarette. "Tested the AMBAC as best we could with the simulator, don't really matter here but it's part of the song and dance. Did a routine on the dexterity screen and gave the actuators a full workup. Had one problem with a thumb sticking in place but got it sorted out. All in all, she's ready to go. Got her loaded up like you said to over the phone, since weapons and ammo are in good supply now that there's no one around to need them anymore. All she needs is her pilot."

"'Her' pilot isn't here, and he isn't going to be happy about any of this."

Rourden shrugged. "Don't tell him then."

Dyson's eyes bulged a bit. "He's my _husband_!"

The tech specialist shrugged again, rubbing a filthy thumb over a scab just below his left cheekbone. "Borrow Daddy's car."

**Ruedesheim, Rheinland-Pfalz, Central Europe**

**November 21, 0087**

The coldest stones were the oldest stones, and the stones of this place dated back to 1148 AD; built by the Augustinians and then abandoned, the Benedictine order had reclaimed this land from the Palatinate Count of Mainz and restored it under the guidance of St. Hildegard of Bingen, probably the most famous Benedictine nun of the period in Europe. Comprised once of two halves, each on opposite ends of the Rhine, the Eibingen monastery had seen Emperors, Reformation, the Enlightenment, constant wars of ascension, a greedy Elector-Prince's plans for conversion, and half its structures obliterated by impoverishment or fire, all before the 20th Century. The final stroke had been in 1802 AD, when the monastery had been turned into an Armory by the Duke of Nassau. In 1831, the community of Eibingen, a suburb of Ruedesheim, had pooled their resources and bought the remains of the monastery. Restoration and patronage under the Catholic Church had brought the monastery back into the Benedictine fold as an abbey for nuns, and thus it had remained until modern day.

Once the shape of a square, only two sides of the original wall remained, but the gate still stood. Visitors to the abbey, few but constant, were obliged to stop at that gate on the single long winding road into the hills before they could enter the hallowed grounds. A pair of statues, younger than the rest of the buildings, depicted the two Patrons of the abbey, St. John the Baptist and St. Benedict. A third statue stood in the courtyard, this one of St. Hildegard, and was the guardian structure of the parish church, where the Holy Reliquary of St. Hildegard was housed.

It was the church that defined this place; a massive structure, rounded and domed, four stories high. A Baroque/Contemporary design, it was a brown granite edifice that was house and place of worship, medieval and comforting all at once; an architectural redesign after a fire destroyed most of the original, this was a near-exact restoration of the preceding building. The occupants, a group of about fifty Benedictine nuns, worked in the other buildings, including a semi-famous on-site winery. It was one of those who tried to halt the advance of the abbey's newest and most unwelcome visitor.

"Please," she said for the fiftieth time since the intruder had exited his vehicle and pushed open the gate as though he owned this piece of land, "if you want to visit the abbey, you _must_ sign in the registry and wait for a guide!"

The man continued walking, making a beeline for the parish church, just a step or two ahead of the habited nun. "You're getting better, but still too weak. Grow some fucking spine. Are you a nun or a maid?"

Taken aback, the waifish nun raced ahead of the man and stood in front of him, forcing him to stop. "_Sir_," she grated out from between clenched teeth, crossing herself, "I must ask you to refrain from such language! This is holy ground! And _put that OUT_!"

The man did stop, and grinned like a shark at her around his cigarette. "_That's_ the spirit, sister! Don't let just any asshole come marching in here doing whatever the fuck they want to." He scuffed at the snow-moist ground with a boot toe. "But this really _is_ just dirt." With a final exhale, the man tossed the cigarette to the ground in front of the statue of St. Hildegard with something akin to contempt. He spread his arms wide and did a twirl. "See? No thunderbolts. God's a smoker, too."

The nun's eyes widened in horror. "Y-you---" She threw herself in front of the man again as he tried to slide past her. "I _insist_ you cease your behavior at once, pick _that_. . ." she pointed at the cigarette butt on the ground, ". . .up and put it in your pocket, and remove yourself from these grounds!"

The man stared at her balefully. "I've had about enough of you, sister. You were funny a minute ago but I've quit laughing. Out of my way and out of my face, time now. I'm not fucking joking with you anymore." He began tugging at the glove over his right hand. "I've had it up to my asshole with ignorant fuckwits telling me what I can and cannot do with _my_ war. Now I've got business here, much as I don't _want_ to be here, so pretty please with sugar on top---" He opened his hand right in front of her eyes, which widened perceptibly, "---shut up, move aside, and don't let me see you again."

The nun almost seemed to buckle. "A-At once, noble sir---"

"_Bzzzz!_" hissed the man as he waved at her, cutting her off. "'Noble' ain't what I am. What I am is a total prick. Listen, we got off to a bad start. I'm tired, cold, cranky, and it was a long drive. Could you _please_ tell me where I can find your Mother Superior? I'm here to see. . ."

The nun's eyes narrowed as the man's face took on a sudden expression of distaste before he continued.

". . . _her_, I don't have an appointment, but it's of vital importance that I speak with her right now."

The nun seemed to wilt even further. "She's in prayer right now, sir."

With a near-visible shudder, Federation Captain Camael Balke looked at the door, then back at the nun. She had averted her eyes to the ground, and he wanted to choke her for doing so. She looked like she was maybe twenty years old, made of sticks under the habit, and was probably freezing herself into pneumonic shock arguing with him in the middle of winter. She was also terrified that she'd offended him. _Great. Probably thinks I'm going to have her lashed. Jesus, I hate having to pull rank._ "Inside there, right?"

She nodded, and he put a finger to her chin as gently as he could manage and lifted her gaze to his face. "Okay, I'm going in there to talk to her. What I need you to do is keep the rest of the sisters away from the church while I'm in there, and maybe take some food out to my driver, who's a much nicer guy than I am and deserves better treatment than what I give him. It's cruel business I'm on and not suitable for the ears of the Lord's lambs. It's why there are wolves like me doing this work, okay?"

She seemed to gather some strength from his awkward apology, and he smiled, trying not to make it look like a leer. "God bless you, sister. Say a prayer for all of us, please."

"I---I shall, sir." She bowed slightly as she stepped away and aside from him, smiling a little herself.

"Good girl." As he walked past her, he spun and gave her a smack on the bottom. The nun jumped, more out of surprise than pain, giving out a little cry of indignant shock. Balke laughed and marched on until he was standing in front of the double doors to the chapel, looking back to watch the nun scurrying off towards the other buildings.

Balke turned back to face the doors. _Damn, I'm too sober to be dealing with this bullshit._ He glanced down at the Teutonic cross tattooed on his right palm, scarlet red on a white palm. Such a magical thing, this tattoo, enough to open almost any door and yet responsible for closing just as many mouths in return. _Whoever said Knighthood was worth a shit was probably really just a stableboy._ He could scare off nuns but couldn't get a free drink without a lecture.

He wished he weren't alone for this, but Dorff had refused to even consider setting foot inside a 'nunnery'. Bryton was in Bonn, updating Colonel Edgrove, and the Dysons had gone their separate ways when Mrs. Dyson had gotten a phone call from Kassel saying her mobile suit was up, and her hubby had gone off to find a suit of his own from someplace. Pickings were slim for Camael Balke when it came to pals.

Steinbaum had been the deciding factor. Just looking at the abattoir of the 103rd Mobile Infantry Company was enough to drive him to Eibingen. Blast craters, pits rent into the earth by ground-effect thrusters and mobile suit footsteps, and the kilometer-long death trail of _Avignon_ that terminated at the edge of the bleak forest in a twisted jumble of shattered trees, had torn the place apart. It would be decades before the land returned to something resembling normalcy again. Most of the debris and unexploded ordnance, thankfully, had already been removed from the site and to Bonn, thanks to the prompt attentions of the Federation support services and the German civil programs of the region, but there was no way to hide that this was a battlefield, especially since the ground around a two-thousand meter area had been scorched black. He had stared balefully at the imposing trees in front of him, marveling at the forest's ability to withstand the conflagration the Titans had brought down upon it. The wet German winter had saved Teutoberg Forest from becoming a tinderbox. For that, he was grateful. That same salvation had left most of the physical evidence intact, and the forest itself had revealed secrets of its own.

Following the trace of a grid of unidentified cables had led Balke, Bryton, and the Dysons into the trees. They had called for Dorff's _Pioniere_ skills shortly thereafter. An hour later, they all had walked out of the forest with more questions than they had answers for. The scene of the Zeon command post had been both sobering and vexing; the cables had all led to a slab of destroyed metal and plastic that's original identity could not be determined. The spiders' webs of copper wire and tin cans, however, had sent Lief Dyson into gales of bitter laughter, and made Balke all the more aware that their enemy had lost none of his skill at battlefield improvisation.

Children's toys, a coffee addiction, and one of the cheapest metals that could be dug up from the planet had become a means to take what had once been for granted in battlefield physics and make mockery of it. Simplicity for the miraculous, and the massacre of the 103rd had been the result. If anyone ever bothered to ask him whether or not von Mellenthin had deserved his command in the War, Balke knew that from that point on, he could point to that single event and rest quite assuredly on it as proof that age twenty-three was already too long to allow someone like the "Hessian Lion" to live, and that he was no better at thirty-one. Bryton had gone to Bonn with everything they could stuff into the Jeep, before they'd dumped him off in Bielefeld to find transportation of his own. They had all separated from there in any event.

Questions demanded answers, and actions required response. Balke was in Eibingen to call in a hunch that there was one font of information that only he could buy.

Steeling himself for what was inside was harder than he thought it would be. It had been almost a decade since he'd set foot in a church of any kind for any reason, and he had not given a lot of thought as to whether or not he missed it. In fact, as he stood in front of the doors, thoughts of fleeing back to Dorff and the car and getting the hell out of here seemed eminently more logical than opening them and facing what was inside. He clenched his hand into a fist.

He didn't know who to be more frightened of: the one who was praying inside or the one who _lived_ inside.

He scowled at himself. _Chickenshit. It's a building with stuff inside. Whatever God there ever was for you, you killed a long time ago, and He never loved you anyway. No God could love a street rat if their idea of love was dumping you into a fucking war to watch everyone YOU ever cared about die, and then throw you back into the street when you needed Him most._ He exhaled through his nose, suddenly angry at this whole business that had brought him here.

With a huff and a puff and hands outstretched, he placed both palms to the door and pushed it open.

The silence was penetrating, as though the stone itself absorbed sound. Architecturally, it was possible for noise to be lost amidst the buttresses and rafters and nooks and crannies, but this seemed so much _more_ so than a trick of stonemasonry. Working on an innate knowledge of churches and cathedrals and the typical Catholic logic of their design, especially of the era in which this building came into being, Balke began to move through the halls, boots breaking the silence with their noise on the stone floor. There was no carpeting, the decorations sparse but uniformly inspiring of Faith, Hope, and Love.

Balke wrinkled his nose and stifled a sneeze. The hallway reeked of incense, and it was getting stronger the closer he got to the chapel. When he reached the doors, he stopped, absorbing the sudden tomblike silence around him. "Better get this over with," he sighed, unconsciously biting his lower lip.

The doors opened soundlessly; even with the amount of force he applied to shove them apart, they slid open with hardly a whisper. His target was exactly where he hoped to find her. "That's right," he spat accusingly, "shake those hips and worship that God, you bitch."

The kneeling figure in the room did not turn around. Instead, she slowly drew a plump but very solid finger across the rail before the altar of the chapel, and made a _tsk_ sound. "I _must_ discuss this with the sisters," came a response from the folds of black, a vibrant alto that had the slightest tremble of age in it. "I just don't understand how it is that this place can get so _greasy_ without any effort."

Balke snorted. "You've moved up in the world. Last I saw you, you were still the same dumb woman doing the same dumb _shit_ in that rat's nest in Augsburg."

The nun was silent for a long moment as she finished her prayer, and then she stood to her feet and turned to look at him. She was a big woman, but not big in the way that obese people were big; she was big of bone, big of hip, big of flesh, and big of heart, with strength beneath it all that few would ever suspect, but Balke knew it well. She was shorter than he was, but he always felt as though he was looking up at her even when he was looking down. Her face was paler than he remembered, but still florid with life. Unlike the rest of the nuns in this place, she opted for the traditional black-and-white habit, with a waist-length black veil instead of the more modern wimple.

"Unlike some of my other wards, certain wayward boys who've never managed to elevate themselves beyond the streets they came from have no place to pass judgment on the lives of others," she responded politely.

He strolled into the chapel, a sneer on his face. "So how much time on your knees did you spend before the Archbishop yanked you out of that cesspool and made you Mother Superior of Germany's most powerful abbey? A year? Ten? Is it all _worth_ it? I notice you've got quite the legion of wenches here to do your dirty work now; guess you've got to go with the tit-bearing models instead of a bunch of 'wayward boys'."

"True," she admitted neutrally, "but then it does take a certain learning phase to realize what the perfect tool for the task is; substitutes are only as good as what blows in through the door."

He was in front of her now, teeth clenched. "You haven't changed a fucking bit, you old bag." She had always been like this, he doing his best to get a rise out of her, and she as unmovable as a stone against all his goading. He had always supposed it was normal that way, since she was the closest thing to a mother he had ever known. There was no person on the planet more capable of enraging Camael Balke than Sister, now Mother Superior, Sophia Ledat; 'Sister Sophie' to the horde of fiendish boys she had single-handedly raised in a Catholic orphanage from the merciless streets of Augsburg.

It was she who had educated him in everything not associated with the dark side of life. It was she who had recommended him for the Order of the Teutonic Knights, the sword arm of the Holy Catholic Church of the UC era. It was she who had applauded his decision to join the Federation Armed Forces.

It was she who had abandoned him to disgrace after the War, the same War against the Electors and their _Ordnung_ she had enlisted him to fight against.

She stared back at him, that aggravating little smile still on her face. "And unfortunately, neither have you, Camael. If you insist on using your vulgar pidgin, and I _know_ you will, then I suggest we retire from the presence of the Lord and have our once-in-a-decade chat elsewhere." She did not move to embrace him, as he had expected her to. "Tell Sister Sophie what your little problem is, and I'll get the sisters to fumigate the nave when you're gone."

**Titans Line (East), Niedersachsen, Central Europe**

**November 20, 0087**

Slapping a hand on the table, a freshly-shaven and proper Garrett Sajer glared down at a set of 10 x 14 glossies. "I can't believe this bullshit."

"It does get a little hard to swallow, doesn't it?" commented Will Stark, Alpha Company's CO, stroking his jawline with a rough thumb, an unconscious habit. "All this time, and there's been no movement beyond their normal pattern. Like clockwork, they just keep rotating, same places, same suits, same times."

"It's not human," protested Demetrius Taggert, Charlie's CO. "This kind of discipline is borderline robotic. What are those bastards _waiting_ for?"

"What they're doing is hiding. _We_ can afford to wait for _them_ to get tired of waiting and make a go at the cordon," Armistead poked a gloved finger at the fuzzy infrared image of a _Gelgoog_. "It's here where their brains are, and it's here where we'll beat them."

Sajer's face was a snarl of feral disappointment. "Unless we're waiting for their 'brains' to atrophy with fucking Alzheimer's, we're not beating anything except our careers into the mud!"

Armistead's face hardened. "I thought we had this discussion, Garrett, and I also think the Major made it clear that we're not going to be dealt the same hand Horvath played with."

"Yeah, yeah," waved Sajer's hand, his voice dripping scorn, "I heard loud and clear, _Scott_."

Taggert chose that moment to interject: "He's right, Scott. This is only going to get worse the longer we wait. Between you and Nico, you can probably convince the Major to let us finish this before it becomes systemic."

"'Systemic'?" Sajer rolled his eyes heavenward. "Thanks for the ego blowjob, 'Meat', but the next time I need your voice with mine, I'll go mute and order a parrot."

Taggert shrugged as though it meant nothing, but his eyes had grown angry with Sajer's use of his hated Academy nickname. "Just trying to help. And _don't_ call me 'Meat'."

Armistead's own eyes were fixed on Sajer. "It's only a matter of time before Hameln rescinds this stupid sanctuary; our cordon only allows traffic in, not out, and that means every soul in that town is stuck in there from the moment they pass our checkpoints. Without much trouble, the traffic is going to force Hameln to reconsider their stance in light of the fact that the blockade is putting a chokehold on their ability to house and feed all these transients. They'll fold."

After a tense moment of silence, Armistead's time for alibis against his statement, Taggert stretched in his field chair, then stood. "Well, if that's the end of this little SITREP, I'll go let my lads know it's another day in paradise."

Armistead shook the C Company commander's outstretched hand. "Sharp eyes and ears, Demetrius."

"Roger that," smiled Taggert as he left, flashing a scolding look at Sajer, who gave him the finger. The less-amicable Stark, never a fan of conversation, left with a salute and no further words, but Lieutenant Trina Redgrove, CO of Bravo Company, stayed rooted in her seat.

Sajer knew what was coming. It was no secret that whatever had once forced them both into the same bed for a four-month affair had long since died out for Redgrove and Armistead. She had bid her time long enough, and now that the "gang" was gone, she was going to make some alibi time of her own with Armistead. Rather than listen to them going at it like little kids squabbling over a toy, he decided absence was the better part of expedience. "I'm getting out of here before I grow a goddamn root out my heel."

He swept back the tent door and stomped away, cursing under his breath this entire situation. _It's such a fucked-up world when the only one who sees things MY way is that sniveling prick Camael Balke!_ seethed in his skull. Balke had pressed Tizard once too often, and been banished; Sajer had taken immense pleasure in the dismissal of the Federation Captain, but now that same victory tasted of ash, as the days dragged on and the Zeon sat in Hameln, shielded and secure from a force ten times its size. Sajer swatted at a frost-covered tree branch, furious at this whole fiasco.

So intent was he with his vehemence that he completely missed the minute snaps of twigs, the crunch of tiny wheels rolling over debris, and the electric hum of the small radio-controlled remote car as it backed away from the side of the tent. The vehicle made a tight turn and rolled away as fast as it could travel, a long strand of copper cable following it as it made its way for Hameln.

**Hameln, Niedersachsen, Central Europe**

**November 20, 0087**

"I've gotta admit, sir," said Inaba Ogun to the man kneeling on the ground, spooling in copper wire with a hand crank, "this has got to be one of your crowning accomplishments."

Lucien McKenna shrugged with a shoulder as he continued to labor with the wire. "It's something I saw in a movie once, Sergeant Major. Hard part's making it work in Minovsky-world, what with the blanket and all."

Ogun licked a lip, pink tongue a vivid color on his ebony skin, as his calloused hands manipulated the control device's levers. A strand of the same wire was connected to the antenna port of the controller, which by virtue of its location on one end meant the other end's excess was inside the roll McKenna was winding back. After a minute, the _buzz_ of the all-terrain remote controlled vehicle was audible. The tiny toy made its way across the _Muensterbruecke_ bridge and back to its operators, where the third man snagged it, its wheels spinning in protest as they left the ground.

"The recording?" asked Ogun to Gary van Allen, who fumble-fingered open the recorder deck cover to extract the tape, then placed it in a player, an earpiece dangling from a connection port. The Private Second-Class put the piece in his frost-reddened ear, listened for a moment, and then nodded.

"Good to go, Sergeant Major," he reported, along with a thumbs-up. The remote controlled vehicle had actually been Antares de la Somme's idea, though he'd recommended an aeroplane version since it would be "more better". Deciding that flight was too problematic for his quick solution, McKenna chose an all-terrain rover with a four-wheel drive option, strapped an audio receiver to it, and deemed it good. Then he put a tiny little camera, like what a person would buy in a tourist shop, right next to that audio receiver, lacing it to a small monitor so that the operator could "see" where the vehicle was going. After another little modification to hardwire the rover to its control unit, since the radio signal would never penetrate the Minovsky layer, the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ Division's "Peeper" Remote Recon Unit was ready to roll. The results were extraordinary, even if it wasn't as good as a RealTime transmission.

All this had cost much less than the information as to where the Titans CP was located; thankfully, for all their repugnant ideology the Titans were not all immune to graft, as a sympathetic local citizen had discovered. While Ogun suspected the local's motive to be more akin to getting the Zeon to leave sooner rather than later, the information had proven indubitably reliable.

Ogun took the tape from van Allen's hand. "I'll deliver this to the General. He'll want to hear it, I'm sure." As the tall man stood, the local kids who'd come to see the Zeon play with their new truck scattered. The locals tended to give the Zeon as wide a berth as possible; the kids were drawn to them like nails to a magnet.

McKenna grinned as he heard the sounds of their scampering fade through the streets. "Course he will. Daily news dumps from the Titans CP are like coffee and donuts to anyone else. What'd you hear on the tape, Gary?"

Van Allen blew on his freezing hands. "I think they're confused."

"Good," murmured Ogun quietly, gripping the tape harder, "let them be confused. Forever."

"It would seem," said von Mellenthin to Ogun, "that our Titans are still in the dark as to why we're here. I'd say that's a good thing, wouldn't you, _Herr Oberstabsfeld_?"

"Affirmative, General," replied Ogun, taking the recording tape from von Mellenthin's outstretched hand, then watching as the General stepped around the desk and sat down in the chair, which creaked underneath his weight. A mug of hot wine was on the desk, but von Mellenthin made no move to drink from it. Instead, he sat there, that ever-busy mind of his working behind his eyes. Ogun dared the question: "Does this change anything?"

"Oh yes," murmured von Mellenthin, not moving his eyes from a spot on the far wall, just behind Ogun's left shoulder, and so quietly that it was eerie. "This changes plenty. Let our frogs know that there's a Feddie task force lying in wait somewhere in the _Nordsee_ for a ship that's late for their appointment on the far end of the Rhine. Aside from that, things continue the way they are." The General put his hands together, as though he were praying, and smiled behind them. "The little games the Earthenoids play are _so_ impacting on our plans."

Ogun saw the malice behind that smile. "I'll let them know, sir."

"Do that."

**Nijmegen, Netherlands, Central Europe**

**November 21, 0087**

"Well, color me _stunned_!" called out Academy Commandant Stilwell from the top of a cargo lifter, a smile of genuine pleasure spreading across his normally-stoic face.

The object of his surprise saluted him. "Got a slot open for remedial students, boss?"

"Only for the ones who deserve it, Mister Dyson, and you are not in that category." Stilwell returned the salute and started his descent, feeling his age with every movement that was too slow, too rough. When he finally reached the bottom, he grasped Lief Dyson's outstretched hand. "You're a long way from Kassel."

Dyson shrugged, a wan grin on his usually cheerful face. "_What_ Kassel?"

That sobered Stilwell's joy somewhat at seeing one of his best gunnery students. "Yes, we heard. What a sad day that was." He gestured behind him at what was being collected from the riverside. "As you can see, they sent us a snake in the gift box, too, though ours didn't fight back much."

Dyson surveyed the wreckage of _RMS Duisberg_, and whistled. "I'll say. It looks like you riddled it with grapeshot."

"Couple of torpedoes, a lot of 120mm, and whatever else I could throw at it to stop it. Probably not the smartest thing I've ever done, since Captain Balke said it might be a bomb."

Dyson smiled. "He says 'hi', by the way."

"I'll bet he does." Stilwell studied Dyson critically. "Still just a Second Lieutenant, Dyson? Not exactly fast-tracking, are we?"

Dyson shrugged. "I married a First Lieutenant. Does that count as ladder climbing?"

Stilwell laughed lightly. "Angela, wasn't it? You're a lucky man, Mister Dyson."

"So I'm told." Dyson looked at his old teacher, who could see plainly that something was bothering him. "I'm here for a favor, Commandant."

"Well," snorted Stilwell, "I didn't think you were here for my charming face and a sudden urge to shoot the shit while there are Zeon crawling all over Europe making mischief. I've got an office here on the corner while my ingrate **_PLEBES_**---!!" He turned his head and roared towards his student work crew, who were disassembling _Duisberg_ piece by piece. "---attend to business. Come along now." Stilwell put a fatherly arm around Dyson's shoulder and led the way.

"Did I hear you correctly, Lieutenant?" inquired Stilwell after a long moment of silence. He had sat there, numb as a post, as Dyson related the events of the past week to the Nijmegen Commandant. It was unthinkable that so few Zeon could so ruin the Federation's defenses, and embarrass the Titans as well. "You want to _borrow_ one of my TGM-79s and _fight_ with it?"

Dyson nodded, hands cupped around a gratefully-warm cup of Dutch hot chocolate. "That's right. My wife's gonna be out there in her suit. Captain Balke and Captain Braxton are out there, too, still in the fight. That Zeek unit is making idiots out of us and the Titans, and no one even knows what they're after in all of this. I think. . .I think I've _gotta_ be in this one!"

Stilwell nodded in return. "Quite right, Mister Dyson, quite right, indeed. But I don't see how taking an unarmored training suit will aid in the war effort with the Zeon, and to be honest," Stilwell's voice grew bitter with anger, "_I'm_ not the one you need to be talking to about this."

Dyson's eyebrows furrowed. "What's up, sir?!"

"Oh yes," said Stilwell, sipping from his own cup, "the man that Dakar's placed in command of the remaining Federal Forces in Europe is none other than Major Golan Tizard of the Titans." The cup in Stilwell's hand trembled. "And after _his_ ilk, command falls to Commodore Dewar of the _Erebus_ task force, which is floating its merry way into history's mediocrity right out there." He pointed with a finger out the window, in the direction of the Helgoland Bight.

Dyson's expression looked like someone had just told him he'd scrubbed his face with another man's piss. "Not Tizard. Please. He's the shitwad who kicked us out of Hameln in the _first place_! This ain't _fair_!!"

"Now, now," chided Stilwell, "all hope's not yet lost. Golan Tizard was a top-notch instructor here after the War. He's only got one weakness I've ever noted him for, and that's a bad case of chivalry blended with a nasty rash of ambition. His game will be timing. He knows he could overpower the Zeon with numbers, but he won't let anything smudge his accolades before this is over with."

"Then _give me_ a _suit!!_"

"I can't. You'll die, and you've got more potential than that. Even if I were so inclined to make the request, it'd be turned down by Dewar, who is still convinced that third freighter is on the Rhine someplace." Stilwell went grim. "Even with your gunnery talents, including your as-yet-unmatched four in-a-row Top Gunnery record at Nijmegen, I don't think you'd have much hope against a passel of Zeon aces and War veterans in an unarmored GM Trainer. I'm sorry but there it is. Request denied, Lieutenant."

Dyson glanced at his cellular phone, sitting on the desk, and reached out and switched it off rather than lean back and punch the wall. "So what now, sir? I came all this way to get back _into_ this fight! Weepin' Jesus, my _wife_ is out there _right now_!! If that. . ._whatever_ he is gets past Tizard, she might. . .she might. . ." Dyson trailed off, fists clenched at his sides. "I can't lose her, sir, and I can't let her do this alone."

Stilwell was silent for a long moment. Then: "Your man Balke seems to have something in mind."

Dyson shrugged offhandedly, shoving the phone back into a pocket. "Probably methamphetamines."

"I wouldn't go so far as that. Captain Balke's sordid past has little bearing on the fact that he's dealt with these Zeon before. If he has a plan, it's probably a good one."

"Ever met him?"

Stilwell shook his head gravely. "Never. He was court-martialed and mustered out before I even came back from Konpei Island after we fought there the _first_ time. I know him by reputation and rumor only, but everyone agrees that without his defense at the Garonne River, the Zeon would have taken Gibraltar's mass driver and established their domination of this side of the hemisphere. That has to count for something."

Dyson gritted his teeth. "I hope you're right, because things aren't looking real good for us right now."

Stilwell's smile was anything but pleasant. "When have they ever, Lieutenant?"

**Ruedesheim, Rheinland-Pfalz, Central Europe**

**November 21, 0087**

"Really, Camael," said Sophia, sipping from her teacup as Balke stomped around her office, "you're making quite the fuss over nothing."

"'_NOTHING'!?!_" Balke's fists were clenched so tightly they trembled. "How _could_ you?? Do you have _any idea_ what you've fucking done??"

"I should certainly hope so, since it was my voice that spurred the decision."

Balke dragged his fingers through his hair twice before responding. "I don't what's worse, the fact you sent a Vatican assassin into Hameln without telling the Federation, or anyone else for that matter, or the fact that you sent a Vatican assassin _knowing_ what he was up against!"

Sophia set her teacup down on the saucer, a stable platform on the equally-stable desktop, which dated back to the 18th Century. "Camael," she said, voice motherly-calm, "making decisions like these comes before Mother Church once every generation. It's testament to the tenacity of evil that it's evolved to the point where we had to make that decision twice this time. When we knew about the eugenicists and their plan, we moved against them in the best way that the Holy See could find, and it was not a decision brought about through undue haste. Weeks of prayer and debate among his Holiness and the Cardinals and the Bishops had to occur before the Church committed itself to their political exile, to stop them from doing what they said they would. The War happened without our say-so, but we paid attention to it nonetheless, and when it was found that the Spacenoids had brought the eugenicists and their spawn from the darkness where we cast them. . ." She rapped the desktop with a sturdy hand. "The third time around, the decision was easy."

"You sent him to his death! You _know_ he can't kill _two_ of them!"

"We had heard there were three."

Balke raised an eyebrow. "Oh-ho, so you have been paying attention, haven't you? You'll keep your ears open, but won't bother to say a damn thing to the people who can stop all this shit. Thanks for including that little asscrack de la Somme on your hit list."

"You're quite welcome." Sophia replied.

"But you sent that poor jerkoff in there anyway."

Sophia nodded solemnly, and he hated her for that. "He knew what he was getting into, Camael, just as you did back in 0079, and those who served with you to hold back this evil. That situation is even direr now, when the Earth itself is divided, the old loyalties broken, and everywhere we look we see a disaster looming, from Space and here. The Federation was not ready for these _creatures_ and their despicable agenda, any more than they were ready for Delaz or for Axis now. The Titans cannot be trusted to do the _moral_ thing; their sins weigh almost as much as those of Zeon. The Church is prepared, and so we have acted. Now sit down and drink your tea."

Balke did sit, but didn't touch the tea. "Look," he rasped, even though he wanted to scream in her face, "it's the Federation's problem, not the Church's, and even if it _were_ the Church's, it's _mine_. The Order was _made_ to handle these assholes!"

"Oh, tut, Camael," Sophia chided him, "all _one_ of you?"

"He won't fucking _win_!"

"Even if he kills one of them, that's a sight more than what _you've_ managed in the last eight years."

Balke glared at her, but she continued. "Face the facts. Too many of you died during the War. According to the Cardinals, there are only about eight of your Order left today, most in retirement. _You_ weren't exactly active duty when your little friends came out of their pit to play."

"And whose goddamn fault was _that_?" And all at once, everything about his post-War life exploded like a volcano. "Where the shit were _you_ when they dragged me in front of a fucking _tribunal_ for _doing my JOB?_ Where the shit were _you_ when I was working as a _smut peddler_ in fucking Augsburg? Where the shit were _you_ when everyone said I was a fucking _lunatic_, and my name got smeared in every history book as a traitor, a liar, a coward, and a _disgrace_?"

He didn't remember when he'd stood up, but he was back on his feet now. "_Where_ were _you_ when everything got turned over to those pusball Titan cumstains? Hell, _fuck it_, screw where _you_ were! **WHERE. . .WAS. . ._GOD_!?!**" Balke's entire body quaked in rage.

She smiled at the finger he had stuck in her face during his rant, patient as she always was. She was a veteran of his temper tantrums, and she answered the only one of his questions that needed answering. "Right beside you, waiting for you to put your back against the wall and then come to your senses and push back."

Balke's mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.

"But none of it would have happened to you if you'd just listened to me."

"Don't," warned Balke. "Don't even try that shit again."

Sophia sat back. "You have had so many blessings, Camael, and you don't even realize it. How many people have you ever met in your life who has a God-given purpose for living? Millions of souls wander about aimlessly on this world and in space with absolutely no direction or goal. You are not one of them, but you made yourself like them when you ran off to join the ranks of the common Federation foot soldier."

"That 'purpose' was _never_ of _my_ choice! _Never_!"

"But it was one you embraced nonetheless." There was no rancor in her tone, no accusation in her voice, and again Balke was reminded how much she drove him nuts.

"A fancy title and a lot of Church schooling doesn't a paladin make, you twat! I needed to be able to handle myself in a war, not in a barroom or a friggin' court! Only the Service could teach me what I needed to know, and you've never confessed to that because I was _right_!" Balke stared at her relentlessly. "But you had to be miss big shot, had to be the one who was _always_ right, so you saw your chance to get even with me for proving you wrong and you let them _fuck me_."

She simply looked at him, and there was something in her eyes that made him want to fall apart, but he held himself together with every rope and lash he could make his rage create; his voice was a harsh whisper. "What you and---"he waved an angry hand through the air in an all-encompassing gesture, "---your Church did to me was no different than what those pimps were doing to me when Father Gehlen found me in Augsburg. _You_ were just kind enough not to take the money for the ride."

"Camael, do you think you were the only one who lost loved ones during the War? Like it or not, _I_ lost more than you did."

He sat down again, after having to right the chair he had toppled in his haste to stand. "How do you figure that? And if you start with some metaphorical _bullshit_---"

Sophia placed her hand on his. "You remember how you came to me, don't you?"

Balke nodded sullenly, voice gone quiet. "Yes. . .dragged by the wrist, back when you were running a halfway house for orphans in Augsburg. Father Gehlen'd found me on the street after getting my ass kicked good after I snitched a trick off of that fuckbag Franz---"

"There was nothing 'halfway' about it. I must have raised fifty of you boys there over the twenty years I was in service at the orphanage. Do you know how many of them survived the War?"

He shrugged. "Most of 'em, I guess. I mean, I kinda lost track of---"

"Three."

Balke's eyes, wide with shock, locked on her face, which had gone deadpan.

She smiled sadly. "You know what your name means, don't you?"

"Of course I do," replied Balke quietly, remembering faces, names, and events long buried under years of narcotics, hatred, and apathy. _How could I have been so blind? I never even noticed that they'd stopped writing me!_ "It's the name of the angel who was tasked to hold back Leviathan."

"It wasn't an accident that Father Gehlen brought you to me, Camael, just like it wasn't an accident that the Church gave you that name because you didn't have one of your own. Your first name angelic, your last that of a knight of the Church from long ago. Whether you choose to accept it or not, you _have_ a purpose, the same one that drove you during the War to stop the Leviathan that the eugenicists birthed without a care as to the personal cost, and that same purpose is why you didn't simply kill yourself when the world damned you."

Balke was rapt, and didn't realize he was crying. _They're all gone. . .they were my _family. . .

Sophia continued, visibly showing no remorse for anything. "I recommended you for the Order because I saw something in you I didn't see in the others as easily. You're a survivor, Camael, a tar baby that the world likes to kick but doesn't break. We needed men like you to be our sword, to defend the truth, and to protect both the Church and the integrity of God's creations from those tamperers. You threw that away when you left the Church and became a Federation soldier, but still you've endured. The world keeps kicking, but you are still here. The streets didn't kill you, the War didn't kill you, and whatever you've been doing since you were disgraced by your Federation friends, whom you chose over the will of God and Mother Church, obviously has not killed you. That proves to me a singular point of faith.

"God still loves you, Camael. You still have the job He gave to you and no amount of vice or sin will change that. As long as that devil in Hameln and his people live, you will never be unemployed." She patted his hand with hers, that curious hand both soft and solid, like it always had been. "I love you, too, like I loved all my boys. Your pasts never mattered to me, regardless of the pitfalls, and what you've been doing since never has either."

She got up from her chair, with visible effort, and Balke felt a stab of guilt watching her through tear-blurred vision. She had become old, still hale and hearty but _old_. He would have never noticed had he not been so close. _I'm going to lose her too, sooner or later._ She walked over to the table and gathered up a cloth, which she brought back with her. Gently, she began to wipe his face with it. He protested and tried to pull away, but she had always been stronger, inured to his physical might through a decade of being raised by her, along with so many others, and without further struggle he submitted.

"You always were the messy one, Camael," she murmured as she wiped. "Wherever you walked, a tornado followed, carrying with it every clod of dirt, fallen leaf, or clump of mud. How you managed all that in the military only the Lord knows, but I guess it's a gift."

He couldn't stop crying, much as he tried, the tears simply wouldn't stop. She didn't seem to mind. "Camael, between the Church and the Federation, it's your mission in life to put an end to this threat. Humankind is its own worst enemy, sinful people doing sinful things, all for power that doesn't belong to them. The Lord has reached out His hand to you again, like He did during the War. You can either take it and do what you were _born_ to do, or you can slap it aside and go back to the world you were living in when you turned your back on His grace."

He did not know when, but she had enfolded him in her arms, and he wept in her softness and warmth and love, not even realizing that she had out-debated him yet again, and he never wanted to leave and yet could not bear to stay. She made that decision for him.

"Personally, you scamp, I hope you do it. I think you owe it to them, and to yourself. And lastly, I think you owe it to me."

"Huh?" he sobbed, muffled in her embrace.

"I lost forty sons in the War to these monsters. You lost your comrades-in-arms, your brothers, your Order, and your faith. Between the two of us, that's a lot of Divine Retribution owed to the Electors and their immoral drones. I'm in no position to mete out such, but _you_ are."

Managing to draw himself away from her, he looked up at her smile. "Does-does that mean. . .?"

She nodded. "Yes. I'll tell you what you want to know, though I don't know how I'm going to justify this to the Archbishop. Breaking the confidentiality of the Bishop of Hameln and his brothers to give you the information you're asking for will send that man into a fit that might last a month, and that is a long time to be spinning around in place. See the kind of trouble you make for poor me every time you stop by and visit?"

He couldn't help but laugh. "I love you, Sister Sofie, you conniving shrouded cow."

"I love you, too, Camael, but I know you're not a bit sorry and we'll talk about that later. Now pull out a notebook and pay attention, and I'll tell you everything I've heard coming out of Hameln. . ."

**Titans checkpoint (west Hameln), Niedersachsen, Central Europe**

**November 22, 0087**

"You _sure_ you wanna go in there, Father?" asked the young man in the black Titans uniform. Behind the Titan checkpoint guard, a black-and-red GM II loomed over both he and the civilian automobile. A second mobile suit, a _Hizack_, stood watch for more traffic. "I wouldn't exactly call it a safe location for anyone right now."

The priest, Father Duhamel, whose license said he was from Trier but he was _really_ from someplace much further south, smiled warmly at the poor man. "My son, the Lord calls me to duty no matter the condition of the environment. Can you think of anywhere else than here that my work is needed most?"

"Well," the young Titan chewed on his lower lip for a second, then passed the license back to the waiting priest, "now that you mention it, no, I can't. I'm sure the Bishop'll make you comfortable as possible, though I doubt those Zeeks will."

"Even the Zeon feel the need for God's mercy, just like all of His creations do." Duhamel let the young Titan's hand linger within the warmth of the car for longer than what would have been necessary. It was bitterly cold out there, after all, and the Titans' cold-weather gear was not designed for long-term exposure, especially for mobile suit pilots, in conditions of humidity.

"Hate to tell you this, Father, but there ain't a Zeek that God's ever loved, otherwise they wouldn't have been born Zeeks. Take care in there, Father." Reluctantly, the Titan withdrew his hand from the car and waved him past the checkpoint.

A few meters down the road, Father Duhamel pulled the car into some brushline, concealing it from view from Hameln as best as he could. He walked the rest of the way.

**Hameln, Niedersachsen, Central Europe**

**November 22, 0087**

"'A good plan executed today is better than a perfect plan executed at some indefinite point in the future'," commented Dietrich von Mellenthin to the other man in the room, though the General didn't turn his head from the window out of which he was earnestly staring, "so why am I still _here_?"

He'd been doing a lot of window-staring lately, though if someone had asked him about it he would've been unable to answer with any sort of certitude. _Admittedly, this wasn't entirely unexpected_, mused von Mellenthin with an internal sigh, _but I DO want to know why it's taking so long._ "Well?" he asked when no answer was forthcoming, "I'm waiting, _Herr Oberfeld_."

The rigid face of Staff Sergeant Wolfram la Vesta seemed to tighten even further. "I've no excuse, General."

Von Mellenthin smiled, though it didn't seem like much more than a crocodile's grin. He turned to face La Vesta. "I _know_ you don't have any excuse, because there aren't any worthwhile enough to explain _six_ days of what would otherwise be _two_ days of work. However, in spite of that, there is still this delay. What is the problem?"

"Sir," began La Vesta hesitantly, "it's the ship itself. It's. . .it's not _meant_ to do what you need it to do, and I have---"

"---Doubts." Von Mellenthin concluded, already guessing where this was going. "Nonetheless, you know what I expect, and if we're to rid ourselves of that infectious blight outside these city limits and proceed with Nemesis, you have to make this happen. I don't care if it requires the blood sacrifice of every child under the age of seven in Hameln to make it work, but _make it work_. Fast. Have I made myself clear? Is it even possible for me to make myself any _more_ clear?"

Seeing that La Vesta was about to pass out from being locked at attention for so long, combined with the fact that the amphibious operator had spent perhaps two hours on land in the last two weeks, von Mellenthin waved a hand. "At ease, _Oberfeld_; I'm not so irate that I'd let you collapse. It's just. . ." he trailed off, then made a perfunctory gesture towards the window, "_they_ are starting to bore me."

"Which 'they', sir?" dared La Vesta, his blue eyes twin spots of brilliance in his Mediterranean coloring.

"_All_ of the 'they's. These civilians, the Titans, the whole filthy planet." Von Mellenthin turned to look out the window again. "We've been here too long, Wolfram. Get us out of this place. How much longer?"

La Vesta's eyes rolled back in his head as he pondered the answer. "A day, sir. Maybe two at the latest. If it wasn't such a big secret, I could guarantee today."

"Better it is done safely. I don't believe our would-be captors out there have any inkling as to what's about to happen, and I prefer it stay that way to the last. You're dismissed; go feed your people and then continue your work." The General tilted his head to a side so that one of his eyes could look at La Vesta again. "Make it tomorrow, Wolfram. It's our last chance. We'll need the noise."

The young Sergeant's face clouded over a little; he probably wasn't aware of it at all, but von Mellenthin had built whole campaigns on watching the involuntary reactions of people. "It shall be done, General," was La Vesta's response. He saluted, took two steps backwards, turned on a heel, and departed.

As soon as the door shut, von Mellenthin released a long breath and clenched his fists until his bones began to ache. He contemplated shattering one of the plaster walls as a vent, but decided he'd done enough of that. There was still gold left over from the Zurich heist, but not enough to go around spending it all on reconstruction projects in Hameln.

_Get a grip on yourself, Elector-Prince of Hessia! This is YOUR game we're all playing; that Titans Major has decided to play it your way, so why are you stressing over the time? Time is on YOUR side. The pieces are already in motion, and Nemesis is about to become a true reality, one so potent as to wipe the stain of failure from history forever! Let things lie as they are!_

He shook his head, staring out the window into the downtown of the old city. He could see the steeple tower of the St. Bonifatius Cathedral, where de la Somme had parked his _Gouf Custom_ at his arrival. Von Seydlitz had turned a house near the cathedral into his own command post, several blocks away from von Mellenthin and the primary TOC. For his part, von Mellenthin thought that von Seydlitz was just acting a fool, and had chosen that location to deliberately distance himself. It was also a petty sign of discontent with von Mellenthin's changes to Nemesis, one that von Seydlitz was unwilling to tolerate even if he was bound to obey it. Open rebellion wasn't the Prussian's way of protesting a case.

Von Mellenthin's brain still seethed at his foster brother's unwillingness to accept that they needed Axis to make Nemesis happen. With Axis and the Republic, and possibly even the AEUG, united, the Titans would be overwhelmed, the Federation brought to its knees, and the Zavis' One-Year War would be vindicated. . .as would New Koenigsberg's war against Terra. It all made perfect sense, strategically. There was no way it could fail, provided the stakes remained the same for everyone and no one side made any pots sweeter than what was already promised.

But von Seydlitz did not concur, and that was the pea under von Mellenthin's mattress. Like it as not, von Mellenthin had not reckoned that von Seydlitz would disagree so vehemently with his decision to involve Axis. The General's own feelings were a jumbled mass of confused emotions that he didn't have the time or inclination to act upon, much less ruminate upon. All he knew was that it _felt_ like betrayal, from a person whom earlier he would have believed incapable of betraying him.

But then, von Seydlitz had been on the reverse of that equation before at the hands of his foster brother. _Perhaps this goes further than Axis. . .perhaps this is Reinhardt finally unleashing his revenge for the Field. Is that it?_ Von Mellenthin didn't feel the grin spread across his face at the prospect. He could best von Seydlitz in a fight, this they both knew. Was this the opening volley of a psychological battle, the venue where von Seydlitz was equal to the challenge, if not outright superior? He was more than aware of his own shortcomings in the patience game: for von Mellenthin, the scales had to be balanced and stay that way as soon as possible; von Seydlitz was the kind of man content to wait for years before unleashing his wrath over a slight. Von Mellenthin's blood warmed at the concept: family notwithstanding, von Seydlitz was Elite, and all debts must be paid in full.

If _that_ were the case, then suddenly the feeling of betrayal became something more akin to pride at the strength his brother would have to possess to commit to such an offensive in the middle of the operation of their lives. Von Mellenthin's arms crossed over his torso, his hands gripping his own shoulders, and he leaned his forehead against the glass pane, feeling the chill of the outside air. _Ahhh, Reinhardt, how I love the way you hate._

A Catholic priest walked past the window, and von Mellenthin caught the man's stare as he gave the building a brief once-over. The General watched the priest pass, a scowl of disgust on his face. He had no love for Catholics, especially priests; he had made that position clear to the Bishop of Hameln just two days ago. Von Mellenthin had thought he'd seen all the priests in the town at that meeting: the one who'd just passed him by was not among those faces.

A knock at the door interrupted his train of thought. "Come," he called out, straightening and turning as the door opened. He saw at least a dozen people a day, like some kind of administrator-king. This one had an appointment. "_Herr Buergermeister_, so good of you to come by," he said, smiling his most charming mien as he sat down in the chair. "We have _much_ to discuss, you and I. . ."

**Kassel, Hessen, Central Europe**

**November 22, 0087**

Angrily, Angela Dyson smashed the OFF button on her phone, cursing under her breath, before tossing the phone back onto the nightstand and rolling over in bed. For the last twenty-four hours, she'd been sequestered in the Kassel 'guest quarters', a leased hotel in Kassel itself being used for transient billets, trying to call Lief, to tell him about his suit, to beg his permission, to hear his voice tell her it was all right and fine and that what was his was hers. Her efforts had been rewarded with consistent messages that her call wasn't getting through, and he never answered or returned her calls.

Any number of different things could be responsible, from intermittent Minovsky interference to cell site overload to Lief just not having bothered to charge the battery. He, God love him, was just on the side of absentminded enough to have forgotten something like that.

She rolled over in bed again, clutching the other pillow to herself, her consciousness lost in the same thoughts that had tormented her in both sleep and wakefulness. He wasn't absentminded enough to forget about his mobile suit. _That_ was the rub in the whole mess. Angela Novak-Dyson knew that there was a tempestuous affair that Lief was having behind the scenes in their marriage, and that there was little she could do to deter her husband from his meandering fixation. He had fought through Hell and high water, battled countless foes, and stormed the very gates of Federation Armed Forces Europe's command structure to secure this love; a campaign of hardship, ticket-punching, and political maneuver that made what he went through to secure her father's blessing for their marriage seem a corner-store triviality.

Lief Dyson was smitten with unrepentant love and adoration for his GM Command.

True, she could have simply _taken_ the stupid suit. She had never really been able to wrap logic around Lief's passion for the suit. He didn't even take care of their car the same way he lavished affection on the red-and-gold GM Command. She didn't doubt her love for him, or his for her; he'd defied virtually everyone he'd ever cared about to woo and wed her after the Academy, but she could never seem to get over the nagging sense that if he _could_, he _would_ cheat on her with that machine.

She dragged herself off of the bed and padded into the bathroom for a glass of water. Now Fate was tempting her with the ultimate fruit. The prudent route had proven a dead end, since she simply could not call Lief and _ask_ permission to use his mobile suit. She could use several different justifications, anything from her outranking him to the desperate straits they were in, but they all meant nothing if the cost was losing him.

She wasn't sure he would ever forgive her if she piloted his suit. She wasn't sure she could forgive herself.

She finished her water and drifted off into a fitful sleep, haunted by visions of a red-and-gold mobile suit with white hands.

**Hameln, Niedersachsen, Central Europe**

**November 22, 0087**

Several hours later, the window was dark, the winter wind from the North Sea dropping the temperature to nearly freezing; the wind itself was a low, moaning howl on the pane. So the sound of the door suddenly flying open with a _SLAM_ made von Mellenthin's hand move towards the knife he kept in his boot, but the grasping fingers paused when the cyclone that had just gusted into his presence finally stopped moving long enough to recognize. Opening his other eye, von Mellenthin focused on the pale and heaving face.

Antares de la Somme's visage was one of horror, shock, and anger, twisted into an anguished pain that von Mellenthin could remember only having seen perhaps twice on his youngest brother. They stared at each other in near-silence, the quiet broken only by the huffing breaths of de la Somme, who must have sprinted half of downtown to come here.

The panting _Kommandant_ broke their silence first. "You.---_wheeze_--- son of a—_gasp_—_bitch_."

Von Mellenthin smiled, then sneered. "Charming," he said, rising to his feet and reaching for his heavy greatcloak, "but I really don't have the time for histrionics."

De la Somme made it to the desk in a step and a half, slamming his hands down on its surface. "What the fuck, Deet?!? You bar me from seein' the kids for almost a week for some dumb reason even I can't figure out, then I finally get to again and boy," the little ace's smile was a feral leer, "did they have some tales to tell li'l ol' me about you!" De la Somme punctuated the last word with an accusatory finger, and it wasn't the index one.

Von Mellenthin's sneer became something a little more spiteful. "Is there a point to this, Antares, or am I just the only one who hasn't heard how your day went already?"

De la Somme clambered onto the desktop and stood on it, looking down on his boss. "The _point_, my _dear_ and _sweet_ Deet," spat the stricken ace in a tone of voice that was one part smarmy British schoolmarm and one part cracking tenor, "is that you're messin' things up!!"

"Nonsense," replied von Mellenthin glibly, pulling the cloak over his shoulders and looking up at de la Somme, studying him. The ace's face was that flushed contrast everyone got when coming into someplace warm from the cold, a splotchy mix of red and white skin. It was also evident that he was quite worked up over the issue, but von Mellenthin found it hard to take anyone seriously when they had snot running out of their frozen nose. "Everything has run according to plan, Antares. Now stop acting like the town idiot and get off the desk."

De la Somme then proceeded to jump up and down. "Don't even"---**thunk**---"_think_ you can"---**thunk**---"wriggle out of this one"---**thunk**---"Deet!! We ain't even started"---**thunk**---"to go around on this yet!"

Von Mellenthin rolled his eyes and sighed. "Fine, but if you intend on conversing with me, you're going to have to do two things."

The younger man stopped jumping on the desk. **Thunk**---"Yeah? What?"

"First, you'll have to talk and walk at the same time, since I have to make the rounds; second, you'll have to get down _off the desk_ and put something warmer than that T-shirt on. You'll catch pneumonia and die as you are."

De la Somme pondered these parameters for a quick moment, fingers scratching at the chest of his T-shirt, a hideous fade of what might have once been white, with a scrawl across the front that read: _Peace and Love. . ._ in big red/pink letters, followed by . . ._HAVE_ **_NO_** _Place Here!!!!_ in black letters. Then, with a simple movement of his toes, he hopped off the desk and landed. "Okey-dokey, then," breathed out de la Somme, but his eyes did not change their furious cast.

Four minutes later, swathed in several more layers of clothing, they were outside. A light mist had rolled in from Helgoland-way, turning the normally-bright Hameln nightlife into a Sleepy Hollow-esque tableau that was, in von Mellenthin's opinion, singularly depressing. "So, Antares," he began as they walked, his longer stride forcing the other man to speed up to keep up, "you have an issue you'd like to discuss with me?"

"Nah, just thought I'd lure you out here into the fog so that the townspeople could hit you with stones and shit until you were dead," grumbled the normally-ebullient de la Somme. "I've heard some pretty nasty noise 'bout you, Deet, from places and faces I shouldn't be hearing those kinds of things from. I'd kinda like to get a better read on the situation if you don't have a problem with it."

"And you believe you have a right to know?"

"Yeah, kinda-sorta, since I'm a part of this big ol' chain of command and I've still got at least one guy under me who might like to know, too. _Deet_---"pleaded the younger man, reaching out to grasp von Mellenthin's arm and slow him down, "I'm---I'm---"

"About to break down and cry like a child?" offered von Mellenthin coolly, but he allowed the touch and slowed his pace.

"God-_dammit_!" barked de la Somme angrily. "Why's it so hard to talk to you? It's always been like this with us! _Why??_"

That statement made von Mellenthin stop. "What," he asked, something very akin to shock in his voice slipping past his normally-perfect modulation, "is _that_ supposed to mean, Antares? I've never shut my door to you, not in twenty years!"

"Yeah, that's what _you_ think!" rounded the smaller man on him, "Provided I put my request to see you into a fuckin' memo!"

Von Mellenthin's arm snapped out, palm clapping against a stone wall, cutting off de la Somme's forward movement. "It is not my fault that you always scurried off to Reinhardt first when you were young and never took advantage of my presence before I had to become what I _am_. If you've got a problem with my position in _our_---" he made that word a sarcastic hiss that was one part chiding and one part warning, "---order, I shall be more than delighted to satisfy your _pride_."

Antares blinked, then shook his head. He knew what accepting that challenge would mean. "I'm ticked, Deet, but I ain't stupid. I've got no problem with your being the up-and-coming _Kaiser_ roll, and I ain't got a problem with you bein' top dog of this outfit, but I---"the ace swallowed hard, "I do have a problem with some of your social graces just 'cause you got some kick about 'parity'. And my 'scurrying' to Reinhardt was because you were never there, and now I can't even do that because of you! What you've done is _killing_ him, Deet!"

There was one of those long silences, de la Somme's last 'Deet' echoing through the fog eerily.

"I would think he was made of more stubbornness than that, Antares. This isn't the first time we've had our disagreements on policy."

"This time's different," emphasized de la Somme frantically. "When he had his men, he was okay because it gave him a focus, even if he was so mad at you it made the paint peel off the walls. . .but now he's even shutting _me_ out, and that's not like him! I wanna _fix_ it, Deet, but I need to know what you're planning so I know what to _say_!"

"By all means, then," von Mellenthin lifted his arm away and resumed walking, "fire away, _Kommandant_. What's the first broadside I must answer to soothe your fragile nerves?"

"Erik told me about your 'deal'."

Von Mellenthin nodded. "An equitable arrangement, if I do say so myself, and one he and his creche-mates were not disinclined towards."

"_I'm_ fucking 'disinclined' towards it!!" De la Somme grabbed his own hair in his hands and gave it a tug, his pace increasing to a full-tilt trudge. "You're using them as freakin' _dinero_ to get your hands on some sweet Axis pie! They're _kids_!"

"They're pre-adolescent weapons, Antares," replied von Mellenthin, "and they all know that."

"Yeah, Reinhardt said the same thing. It's still _wrong_! They didn't _ask_ to be what they are!"

"And we did not ask to be _where_ we are, but Fate, it seems, is ironic. These 'kids' give us Nemesis on a silver platter."

"Not if they're in _Axis_ they don't!"

"Leave Axis to me, Antares. The arrangement is eminently fair. They get what they want, I get what _I_ want, Axis gets what it wants---"

"---and somewhere in all that, we all _lose_!" grated the ace bitterly. "Axis'll grind 'em up and use 'em until there's nothing left. Then they'll grab you an' Reinhardt and do the same to you because you're that damn _good_ at war---"

"---and then they'll take you." concluded von Mellenthin gravely.

De la Somme shook his head. "Naw, I ain't worried about that. I'm the _normal_ one, remember?"

"Reinhardt would disagree with that assessment."

"That's a whole 'nother conversation, Deet," said de la Somme as they rounded a corner. "Where are we going?"

"We are going to have coffee, heavily fortified, where it will be warmer and drier than out here. You were saying something about the Axis deal?"

De la Somme smacked a hand to his forehead. "I was, wasn't I? So let's say Axis gives you want you want and all's fair. We kill the Titans and the Feds, topple the Republic, and all's well in Heaven and Earth. . .what then? We gonna fight Axis?"

"Most likely. Man cannot have two masters, after all, and I doubt strongly that Haman and I would co-exist. I won't marry her because I'm already getting to claim _that_ prize once Nemesis is achieved. I could either let her be my whore once she's broken and Axis is mine, or I could do the ultimately wise thing and space her."

"I say if you know she's a bad girl, break her on the rack ASAP. Reinhardt hates her."

"Reinhardt hates most people. I think they've had words before."

"They have. He told me before Nemesis kicked off that he'd bounced a call off one of her ships to Axis just after that sissy treaty they signed with the Titans that'd give them access to Terra's orbit, and she kinda blew him off."

"At the moment," von Mellenthin made his way towards a brightly lit coffee house, "she's in the position to do so. After Nemesis, she'll be in any position _I_ deem her necessary to be in."

"Even when she's packing NewTypes and you ain't?"

Von Mellenthin's hand stopped at the door handle as de la Somme's words suddenly sunk in. He glanced down at the ace and quirked an eyebrow.

De la Somme's expression slipped into a smile. "Uh, oh. Don't tell me I just---naw, no _way_, I _couldn't_ have!!"

Von Mellenthin ran his tongue across his upper teeth, but said nothing.

De la Somme crowed out a laugh of pure joy. "FINALLY!! I've _finally_ found a hole in a Deet-plan!! You didn't even _think_ of that, didja? Didja?? _Did_ja??"

"You don't have to make a production out of it. To answer, _no_, you haven't found a 'hole'. What you have found is an option I didn't think you had the capacity to notice. It is true that giving over seven potentially powerful NewTypes to Axis might come around to bite me later, but the essence of Nemesis renders them a non-factor as long as Haman Kahn cannot make more of them, and their ages preclude their use in the present conflict."

De la Somme smirked at him. "Liar, liar, pants-on-fire."

"Just get through the door, Antares, before I put you through a window."

De la Somme glanced inside, inhaling the atmosphere. "Why _here_? This is a rat-hole."

Von Mellenthin pushed the smaller man inside, de la Somme giving out a surprised yelp as he was propelled through the door. "Because it's almost 2300 hours, they're still open, and the grill serves _Frankfurterwurst_."

"So this ain't just you inviting me along for some social _Kaffeetrinken_?"

"Far from it. I've not eaten today. Find us a table while I find the latrine."

Fifteen minutes of waiting and small talk later, they were back on the course of business. "The problem," said von Mellenthin, gesturing with a mustard-smeared knifepoint, "is that Reinhardt refuses to admit defeat, even when he knows it's more balanced to yield."

"Noo," hummed de la Somme knowingly, "the _problem_ is that you don't know when to quit when it comes to him."

"I think you underestimate his strength." This was turning into one of the most sober conversations they'd ever had.

"And I think you overestimate it when it comes to questioning his ability or his loyalty. Think about it, Deet: you've got the best XO you could ever have, someone so devoted to you that even _he_ don't get it, who's almost as good at the planning game as you are, and you just smacked him across the self-esteem with your cock. Thing is, he knows he's right about Axis, and to be honest with you, I think he's right, too."

Von Mellenthin sighed. "Go on."

De la Somme leaned forward on his elbows. "He's learning to hate you. Right now. And both you stubborn asses are gonna let this shit kill us all. We ain't got time for this game, Deet. I know you think you've got those Titan dicks all figured out, but eventually the pressure's gonna let loose and we're all up shit creek then. Hell, even this town's starting to get sick of us." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the denizens of the establishment, what few there were at this time of night.

"Hameln is safe as long as Tizard keeps to his end of the bargain."

"Hameln is _terrified_, Deet. They think of Metz and wonder why we're not gone yet."

Von Mellenthin snorted. "Metz was a fluke, and one of Reinhardt's and Gyar's devising. I'll take no more direct responsibility for Metz than I do for Luxembourg."

"That don't matter. They still remember, and it's still _your_ unit sitting in their town center with mobile suits." De la Somme dragged a hand through his hair, the little moisture from outside that lingered in the strands making it stick up in all directions even after his hand stopped moving through them. "This plan sucks, Deet. Everything about it except the Hameln move has sucked ass, will suck ass, and might just keep on sucking ass even after it gets us all blown up. And then Axis runs the show, and the whole thing has to start over."

Von Mellenthin finished the last of his sausage, put the knife down with one hand while wiping his mouth with a napkin in the other, and then very casually picked up his coffee-and-rum mug. "So what would you have me do, Antares, were I even so thoughtful as to continue to take this from you? Give up Nemesis after we've come this far? Go back to the Federation in chains and surrender myself back to a cell for the latter hundred and fifty years of my life? Give up the Will to Power and become just another person? What would honestly make you happy, right now?"

De la Somme smiled, but it did not touch his amber eyes. "Fix your _family_, Deet. He's given up his whole future and way of life for you; the least you could do is find it in that stone heart of yours to admit he might be right."

"How Hallmark of you."

"See? Dammit, it's that shit that drives me nuts about both you fartbags. Quit playin' to _win_ and just play to _live_!"

Von Mellenthin finished the coffee, feeling the sweet-hot of the rum suffuse itself through his system; it faded within a minute. _They skimped on the booze; no tip._ "There is no life without victory. You know that."

De la Somme stood up. "Then be victorious or somethin' and apologize to your brother for trying to fight that same fight." He leaned over and planted a quick kiss on the top of von Mellenthin's head, daring a slap. "He's not gonna let you hit him with the hammer this time."

Von Mellenthin's eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to protest _that_ nonsense statement, but de la Somme raised his voice another decibel and cut him off before he could start. "He's through giving, not if he's gotta take that kinda shit from the only person he ever really cared about. . .'sides me, of course."

Von Mellenthin scowled. "Of course."

The chill of the draft when de la Somme opened the door and left him wasn't half as cold as what ran through his veins. So intent was he on it that he never felt the eyes on his back as he paid at the bar and strode back into the world equally cold.


	21. Chapter 20

This chapter is dedicated to Task Force 2-12 Cav, 2 BCT, 1st Cavalry Division, and the seven who got home before we did.

**MSG: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed**

**Chapter 20**

**Hameln, Niedersachsen, Central Europe**

**November 23, 0087**

It had been written once in a published travel guide that in Germany, every day was a Festival, and that at any given time of the year, some township or village, _Stadt_ or _Staat_, somewhere someplace was having a celebration. The scribe of that tome was, in essence, correct, even when not counting the national holidays, but that same guide also failed to take into account that some _Fests_ were not celebrations at all.

They were wakes.

_Volkstrauertag_ dated back to the First World War. Held on the third Sunday of November, right smack in the midst of pre-Lent _Fasching_ season, it was known outside the Germanic region as their "Memorial Day", a remembrance of the 5 million-plus who died during that conflict, to include those in the Holocaust. As wars, both nationalistic and otherwise, came and went, _Volkstrauertag_ became the "Veteran's Day" of _Deutschland_. In keeping with the German "any excuse to party" _modus operandi_, they tried to turn what would ordinarily be a somber day into a gala affair that was bitter and sweet.

Location was, of course, a factor; whether it was _Fasching_, _Fasnet_, _Karneval_, or _Fosnat_, the commemoration was on the same schedule even if the way of venerating it was different. On the lands east of the Elbe River, it was a bleaker affair than anywhere else, the revelry inoculated with just enough lamentation to make it seem a time of sober regret. Germany had a long memory, for both joys and pains, and few places held more pain than the Eastern states. In bars and living rooms and meeting halls and the myriad other places that people gathered, steins of beer and mugs of hot, spiced wine were lifted by veterans of the One-Year War and others who had lost loved ones, and prayers for Hameln were spoken aloud by those who wondered how it could all have come to this and who on Earth was going to do something about it, though who was more to blame depended on what side of the bar one was sitting on.

Hameln, for all its besieged peril, was not east of the Elbe, and so it did what it had always done: throw a wicked bash.

Determined to show no fear in the faces of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_'s Zeon or the Titans outside, the town had come out in force to commemorate its war dead. It seemed to the Zeon trapped within its border that Hameln simply refused to care that the War had returned to threaten it and everyone inside. Ignoring the combatants utterly, there were very few who chose to stay home for this one. The streets were packed with roving throngs of party-goers, every corner seemed to have another band or theatrical troupe taking advantage of the legend of the Pied Piper, and to the Spacenoids, it was as though the fireworks and noise and the cacophonous din of revelry had simply blanked out the very fact of their existence in their world. A snow flurry had blown in, gently dropping flakes down onto a town that scarcely noticed them amid the painted faces, raucous laughter, and the heat of uninhibited revelry.

Those who had died had done so to ensure that their future generations could indulge in merry-making. The future generations dared not disappoint the expectations of their fallen.

Scintillating bursts of light and color turned the camouflaged skin of the _Gelgoog Commander_ into a speckled vista of multicolored iridescence. Its dormant mono-eye refracted the lights of the exploding fireworks in all directions; those broken flares of light had enough illumination left to refract again from the snow on the rooftops and the icicles that hung from rain gutters and eaves to cast a random "disco ball" effect on the ground beneath and around it. Within the dancing lights stood Commander Karl Weissdrake, immobile as the building he stared at through the steam of his own breath and the binoculars he held to his face.

Unlike the rest of Hameln, this particular location was nearly devoid of human traffic, so his attention was rooted firmly towards the riverside, down the lines of wharfs, to a single dock. His eyes, still affixed to the binoculars, scanned the wharf tirelessly, watching and waiting for the sign he needed to see. Another firecracker bloomed in the air above Hameln, red and orange brilliance, and again the light was reflected down upon and around him in a shower of speckles and dots. His eyes still roved across the pier, seeking his quarry like a hound on a scent. After another sweep, he took his eyes from the binoculars and glanced down at his wrist chrono, noted the time, then returned his gaze to the river. He had been standing here for nearly three hours, but he felt nothing. Not the cold, not the wet, not fatigue. He was a son of New Koenigsberg, inured to such trivial things as physical discomfort. In that respect, aside from Antares de la Somme, the adopted son, and the two _Graf_, born to rule, he was one of a kind in this unit. None of the others were of the Race, and none of the others had fought the masses of the _Untermensch_ while their flesh melted inside the confines of a burning _Zaku_.

The _Graf_ had given him and all his people that strength. They lent that strength to those with whom they had fought the War against Terra, besieged Zeon in their cold vacuum. He, in turn, lent that same strength to his own people, his soldiers; Weissdrake knew that the devotion of the Foxe twins to him rivaled the devotion they had to each other. Weissdrake had wondered often if Royce and Bryce had ever disagreed about anything. If they had, then it was never where another soul could see or hear it. Then again, he also presumed that they never needed to argue about anything as an open-air event: they could probably argue by thought alone.

He swept the wharf again, and again, no sign of what he sought was apparent. Von Mellenthin had sent him here personally to watch for the signal. He knew that Weissdrake would wait all night without failure, without falling asleep, and without disobedience, if it were necessary to maintain the vigil that long. Weissdrake would serve, as was his function and his birthright, and therefore he was more trusted than those who would doubt. Someone like Vladimir Margul would question the Why of it; Karl Weissdrake dared not betray his faith by admitting uncertainty.

Besides, he already knew the Why. The Why was the impetus behind the dissention between von Mellenthin and von Seydlitz. It was also the reason why Karl Weissdrake kept his faith with two who weren't even from the House that his family was pledged to serve. The Elector-Prince of Saarland had met his doom in North America, but here there were _Graf_ to follow yet, and the Why was all the proof Weissdrake needed to know that his decision to stay was the right one: only a _Graf_ could have conceived of this scheme and made it work in the face of ten times their firepower.

Only a _Graf_ could rule; that was simplicity incarnate, and the unassailable Law all who followed the _Ordnung_ accepted as undeniable fact. Even one such as himself, who had faced the flames, lacked the might to accept the burden of responsibility over all the _Volk_. Karl Weissdrake was extremely comfortable with that knowledge.

He checked his chrono again. They were now officially late by more than seventy-eight seconds. He could feel the tightness of the scars on his skull as his face stretched into a contemptuous grimace. For the trillionth time since his entry into the Zeon Armed Forces, he lamented that not all of Side 3's citizens were disciplined enough to stick to a simple deadline.

There were benefits to rank, though, and he was about to indulge in one of them. _Make me come down there personally_, he raged in his mind, _and I'll make agony your secondary job specialties, you slow-gene peasants. Just go ahead and piss me off. . ._ It took some effort to make his temper flare, not after Poitiers and Metz and the long wait to get to this point.

Suddenly, the past no longer mattered, as a single light shone from a window in the roof of a dockyard structure on the riverside. Amid the brilliant orange-gold of another firework detonation, a green light stabbed towards Weissdrake, blinking once, twice, thrice. While he'd been expecting it for hours, Weissdrake still nearly dropped the flashlight as his maimed hand dug it out of his coat pocket. After a hasty curse and a brief struggle, he pointed it towards where the green signal had come from and triggered three purple flashes back, the acknowledgement signal. He shoved the binoculars into his other pocket and sprinted back to his _Gelgoog Commander_, clambering up to the cockpit with the ease of familiarity a long-time suit driver developed.

His damaged hand moved through the motions of activating the communications suite unconsciously, even as his other hand flicked at the switch that would close the hatch behind him and bring the mobile suit to life. The _Gelgoog_'s interior illuminated in blackout-mode blue, and he settled himself in. He frantically checked his watch and determined that he was within the window for the lowest Minovsky emission level: von Mellenthin would be having his get-together with someone on a _very_ long distance call.

His crippled hand mashed a button, and he spoke simply: "Ready."

**Aerzen, Niedersachsen, Central Europe**

**November 23, 0087**

"There it goes again," called out the corporal on radio watch as the hertz meter spiked again. Three other sets of eyes watched as it jumped, then settled back into the flatline common in Minovsky environments.

"That makes what?" asked Tizard offhandedly, because he already knew the answer. "A half-dozen in an hour, on this hour, every day for the last three days?"

"Sounds about right, sir," replied the head of the Commo shop, the Brigade's communications company. "If the trend is deliberate, then somehow the Zeon are squirting a five-second burst transmission above their umbrella on a planned schedule."

"But with whom are they speaking?" mused Tizard. "There a way to intercept these bursts, correct?"

The Commo chief nodded. "There is, sir, but the problem is tracing the path of the transmission. Depending on the direction of LOS, it might be a little rough to rig a receiver and put it in the path of the signal. If it's someone in orbit, for example, we'd have to have an aerial receiver."

"Air power I can get you."

"Yes, sir, we know, though the receiver would have to remain stable enough to catch the entire burst. A helo asset would be too low-altitude to do any good, plus they'd probably shoot it down with the _Gelgoog Cannon_ while it was stationary. I've requested the use of a high-altitude AeroStat zeppelin from European Command, but with the Kassel mess, getting the use of any Federation assets might take days."

Tizard smiled thinly. "Leave that to me. Smoothing over obstacles is my purview. Continue to log the bursts, and try and determine the direction of transmission. If they're talking with their missing ship, I want to know before we start trying to put balloons over Hameln. We still have time, so long as the cameras take their morning pictures and we can track them inside the town within a reasonable degree of accuracy. Their adherence to their schedule makes this child's play to accomplish, does it not? I need to borrow your long-range whip to Lammersdorf again. I'll be in my office making a call."

"Roger, sir." The Commo chief watched Tizard leave, looking unusually pleased about something. He had been using the long-range Hi-Freq suite fairly often, and the circle of officers subordinate to Tizard had begun speculating as to whom he might be speaking with that required a transmitter strong enough to broadcast beyond the ionosphere.

**Kassel, Hessen, Central Europe**

**November 23, 0087**

"If it's any consolation, Lieutenant," said Braxton Bryton with a wink, "I've always been a believer in the expression 'beggars can't be choosers'."

Angela Dyson nodded, lips pursed. It was the answer she'd been expecting, however nebulous and disappointing it was, but it had been she who'd asked the question anyway. "I don't know why this is so hard, sir. I'm a mobile suit pilot, that's a mobile suit. Enemies of the Federation are out there, and I've got a weapon to fight them with."

Bryton shrugged sympathetically. "I'm no suit driver, never have been, and don't see any great appeal about the humongous things. I wish I could relate to your problem, but I can't. I'm not like Captain Balke, who knows people and their motivations and how to read them and react, but are you more frightened of your husband's reaction than of going into a fight? Is that the reason you're having such a time of this?" He shot a glance at her, pulling his eyes off of the GM Command briefly. "Or am I mistaken altogether?"

Dyson snorted, knowing he was right. "I hope that's not some kind of insinuation that I can't perform my job, sir."

"Just checking. Being beaten up has rattled even the most fearless troops before. I've seen it." Bryton's eyes went distant as a memory flickered across his mind. "Oh, have I seen it. . ." he whispered, almost inaudibly over the din of machinery and maintenance techs at work.

Dyson looked at him for a moment, and opted not to press the matter. A curious part of her really wanted to know how deep the connection between the vulgar Balke and the mannered Bryton went. _What really happened to them during the War? Why is this so personal for them both?_ "We've got a code, sir, even though I'm not sure I can explain it. It's a thing between mobile suit pilots and their suits." She sighed and dragged a hand through her hair. Sleep had eluded her all night because of this, and she looked like it. "You just don't take another person's suit. It's. . ._wrong_."

"Maybe so, but what are your other choices? Lieutenant Dyson hasn't returned your calls, and it's only a matter of time before the Zeon come out from their sanctuary. If they get past the Titans, this suit and _you_," he pointed at the GM Command, "may be all that we have against whatever Nemesis really is. You could sit the rest of this out, but last I saw of your husband was him getting on a tram to Nijmegen to rally support from the Academy cadre, so he's not sitting anything out. In the end, the choice is yours to---"

They both jumped involuntarily as the cell phone in Dyson's pocket buzzed. She pulled it out, fingers fumbling slightly in haste to answer it. "Dyson. . .no. . ._NO!_. . .no, sir. . .right here, sir, stand by."

Bryton watched her as she spoke. Instead of the expression of someone who had been expecting a call and finally received it, her face took on a sudden woodenness, then bent into something just on the brighter side of disgust. She almost looked relieved as she handed out the phone for him to take.

"Your husband?" he mouthed in almost a whisper. She shook her head, and he took the phone. "Bryton here."

"_Hey, bitch_," grated a familiar voice, "_it's Daddy. What're you wearing?_"

Bryton grimaced. "Camael. Have a fun time in Boppard?"

"_Closer to Bingen, actually, and if this was my fucking idea of 'fun', I'd stay at home and jack off with a cheese grater next time and maybe hit Nirvana in comparison. Where're you at?_"

"A pre-fab hangar in Kassel. Lieutenant Dyson's having issues with her suit selection. Where are you?"

"_On the_ Autobahn _for Aerzen, stuck in holiday traffic. I've got some stuff for us and our Titan pals, but we've gotta hurry. Tell Dyson to get her sweet ass in that suit and get moving, time now. Me 'n Dorff'll meet you there_."

"Tizard'll be miffed. He doesn't want us there."

"_He can birth llamas for all I give a fuck. He'll cope_." Bryton could almost see the cigarette slip up from its package, Balke's lips draw it out, and the tip insert itself into the already-lit lighter's flame before he continued: "_With this much dope on the supermonkeys, he'll spend the rest of this campaign on his knees sucking off priests paying this debt. Listen, I'm not spewing this shit over an unsecured line. Just get both your butts to Aerzen and leave_ Li-_zard to me. Where's the other Dyson at?_"

Bryton glanced over at Angela, who had wandered over to abuse a tech or two. "No clue. We can't reach him. I'd guess he's still trying to get a suit out of Nijmegen. If he's on his way back here, the traffic might have gotten him, too."

"_He's probably Stilwell's bitch now. Look, just get you and Miss Pilot up to Aerzen. This whole thing might be over with by the end of _tonight _if things go one way, and by the end of the week if things go another._"

Bryton grinned wryly. "That's an awfully big assumption based off shaky source information, Camael."

"_Trust me, it's goddamn divine_."

"That's pretty funny coming from someone who used to tell me that there was nothing sacred unless it was officially confirmed by no less than three _reliable_ sources."

"_You sharpshooting me, Signal Boy? Get to Aerzen. Balke out_."

"Camael, WAI--!" The phone disconnected before Bryton could finish. He sighed, gazed up at the heavens, and then walked over to the waiting Dyson.

"Fun news?" she asked him.

"It's crunch time now, Lieutenant. We're going back to Aerzen to meet Captain Balke. This puts you in an enviable position."

She gaped at him. "How's that 'enviable', sir?"

"Well, you only have two choices now: ride," he reached over and patted the GM Command's titanium foot, "or _drive_."

**Lunar Elliptic, 385,000 km from Earth**

**November 23, 0087**

"_Transmission terminated after last. Standing by for further guidance_."

She sat back in her seat, letting tension she did not realize she was feeling drain as her head settled back against the neck-rest. It was a very uncomfortable seat, prone to making parts of her ache now, as it had for last four years that she'd been sitting in it. Splayed before her was a monstrous wooden desk; into its shape was hewn the Zeon Cross, matching the purple-and-gold carpet that spanned the length of the room. When others were absent, she amused herself by placing her boots on the desk's polished surface, knowing that the sacrilege would incense the Old Guard.

It did not matter, not in the reality, but from time to time it reminded her of someone; the clinging to discipline for discipline's sake. An image to maintain, constantly, but Haman Kahn was still young enough to appreciate the rebel for rebellion's sake as well.

Collecting her thoughts was a swift process, even with a month's worth of information to collate into a pattern. Patterns, however, were talents of hers, and as piecemeal as this one was, it was still evident to her consciousness. "Your assessment, Colonel?"

The voice that issued through the speaker was scratchy from distance, but otherwise unblemished. It made for a haunting melody in the darkened room. She liked the darkness when she spoke with those she had sent into the Void. "_My assessment remains the same, Lady: he will keep to his end of the bargain if it gets him what he desires, and he won't let anything stop him from fulfilling it_."

"As do all men." It was almost spiteful: powerful men had made her what she had become, but powerful men had also disappointed her before. "Is he as dangerous as I've been told he is? Is it dangerous to trust him so far?"

The perversely light-sounding voice gave off a sound that might have been a chuckle, were it not so sinister in scope. "_They all are_. _They've never known any other way to be._"

She smiled in spite of herself, knowing the mind behind that laugh almost as well as her own, as well as recognizing that the answer had been a play on her own words. "Then proceed, Colonel. Give the General and his people what they deserve out of their trials, and bring me what belongs to Axis. You are now in command for the duration of this mission. Inform the Captains that I said so."

"_As you will_." That was why of the throng of powerful men at her disposal, she would trust something of this matter to only this one: a man with a mind as cunning as hers, but whose loyalty to her was unquestionable, his reputation as much a weapon as a salve. She was giving him the might of this small task force, the first Axis had ever sent so deep into the Earth Sphere since 0083. This would act as a test of their treaty with the Titans, and how much leeway their erstwhile allies would give them within their domain. The Colonel would be the one whom the responsibility of command would fall to; she knew he was more than adequate for the task.

The only other person better would have been a woman, but she refused to risk an asset of _her_ caliber for a task that may end badly no matter how things went. That the Colonel already understood that risk and did not care was why he had been placed high in her counsel, along with the Old Guard whom she despised.

"And Colonel?"

"_Lady?_"

He had been expecting the askance. He knew her so well; she often wished she could say the same about him. Her smile grew cold, though none could see it. "Be discreet. I'm not ready to upset so many careful plans just yet. Bring me what belongs to me, and don't fail."

"_Understood, Lady_. Sieg _Axis_."

She had never realized that she had wanted this terrible chair or the ugly desk until she had them. Their aches and discomforts were worth it all. Where else could she exert such control, such power, over such distance, through so many possible outcomes? The toothless Federation, the ridiculous Titans, the upstart AEUG, the eunuch Republic of Zeon. . .and those who worshipped at the altar of the dead Principality of Zeon. The lines were blurring quickly. Steps had to be taken before everything blended into mediocrity.

"_Sieg_ Axis. . .and Neo-Zeon." It was not her usual choice of ending a conversation, but it was appropriate enough to suit the Colonel, and herself. Very little ever remained constant forever; even Abowaku and Solomon, once the guardians of Zeon itself, had become Federation brothels, Pezun a neutral sit-out and a solid metaphor for a future ruled by obsolescence. Axis, eldest of them, was now the sole sibling still capable of performing its purpose.

The hum of the fusion drives was a dull throb in the background; most residents had long since grown so accustomed to it that they were ignorant of it, but she still heard it. Like the heartbeat of an immense beast, its sound reflected the course of life. Haman could no longer remember what life was like before that sound had become the entirety of it. She closed her eyes. "Is this the right thing? Is this really how it has to be?"

There was a rustle as the other figure in the room finally shifted, cloth brushing against cloth lightly as she rose to full stature. "If you intend to return Princess Mineva to her rightful place, you will require men of his nature to fulfill it. You know I disagree with the Colonel's opinion entirely, Haman."

"I trust his judgment. He's never steered me wrong." Her counselor and the Colonel disagreed often, to the point of her own personal amusement.

Even with her eyes closed, she could see the perfect smile of the other in the perfectly-toned reply. "Neither have I."

Haman shivered involuntarily, as she often did when her counselor spoke, but her tone told of discontent, not pleasure. "That I have to choose between you both sickens me."

The figure of her counselor shrugged minutely, evident only in the sound of moving cloth; the grace of the gesture would have those not familiar with her counselor's moods think it something else entirely. "There really is no choice though, is there? The Colonel has his own past to guide his interests. I have no interests except yours, and Princess Mineva's."

"What did the others say?"

"They agree to all our requirements. They are frightened by what they're becoming, but they also understand the concept of self-preservation. The hope you represent is a powerful carrot to dangle before them. They are impressionable still, and they fear him, just as you do."

"I fear no one." Not entirely true, but close enough. She opened her eyes, but did not look directly at the other woman. "I want them. I want what they represent, for us and for Neo-Zeon. The vindication of Zeon Daikun and Degin Zavi and their War, neatly wrapped in seven convenient packages. Even wily old Delaz couldn't have seen this."

She felt a hand reach out and touch her hair, and she nodded her understanding, feeling her counselor's touch transmit through her skin and into her thoughts. The other in the room was wise for her age; barely a decade older than Haman herself was and yet seemed so much more ancient in spite of all appearances to the contrary. She was also one of few Haman could confide in on a level she never could with the rest around her. They did not understand things the way her counselor did; not even the Colonel, with whom she had shared her bed on occasion.

Many did not understand the nineteen year-old Regent of Axis. Char never did, and neither did Jamitov. Char had betrayed her years ago, and Jamitov probably would before too much longer. The Colonel might, if he could not keep his past from closing its jaws around his soul. But her counselor was a different creature entirely. She had brought her into her fold years ago and never found her to have any motive than what she said her motivation was: to bring Zeon back into its place as the true cradle of Humanity. Mineva Zavi was the rightful heir, a true daughter of Zeon, and the key to the ultimate freedom of Space from greedy Terra's grasp; she did not doubt her counselor's belief in this as well.

Her counselor spoke, with warmth she had not heard since the death of her father. "The Colonel will succeed in bringing them all to us. United with them, none can challenge the ascension of Princess Mineva and Neo-Zeon. We will ensure it, in spite of Gremmi's ever-more vocal complaining. How like his father he is after all." A pause, and the other female gave a _tsk_ of disapproval. "At least take your boots off before you put your feet up. It's such a grand desk."

"Once I'm done. I expect one more caller tonight. Handle Gremmi as you see fit, so long as he keeps his mind to himself. I don't want to hear his bleating today." Haman kept the surprise out of her voice at her counselor's praise of the Colonel's reliability; that was rare indeed, since her counselor held the Colonel in something close to contemptuous indifference. She had never seen the need to ask why.

Haman felt her leave the room, almost as soundlessly as during the report, when she had entered. She would see her counselor again tonight; with the Colonel gone, she had plenty of time and no worthy people willing to occupy the space in her sheets. Not that she was going to invite her counselor in, but with Gremmi griping yet again, probably about not being the one commanding this operation, it was a chance for them to talk, woman to woman, and trade secrets. Gremmi was a book worth updating whenever possible, at least as a study of egomania at its finest. Haman thought back to her hazy recollection of Giren and shivered. Gremmi Toto and Giren Zavi may be of the same cloth, but definitely were two different people. It was times like these she wondered yet again how Kishiria had managed to wait all the way until Abowaku to murder Giren. Char had told her that story.

But there were other stories she had never heard. They had something in common, Haman and her counselor; for all their above-the-ordinary talents, neither had ever managed to unlock the Colonel's secrets. He was often a topic of conversation, especially when he was not present. That way was closed to them both, and it was one of the mysteries she always hated but could not avoid picking at, like the itch of a wound that never healed. She knew the Colonel did not care; he seemed to love the attention more than any other man would.

Not all the fun lay on Terra's surface, even if that fun had taken the Colonel away from her for a time. _Sweet power, how I love thee. . ._ Haman ran a thoughtful finger across her lower lip, to stop its sudden trembling as the plans played out in her mind again, and again, and again, all with one final outcome. Fools dealt in ideals; winners bent others to them.

The drives _thrum_med on, and great Axis stayed its course towards a destiny only rebellion could forge.

**Hameln, Niedersachsen, Central Europe**

**November 23, 0087**

The eldest of the Commonality sat back as he finished telling his story to the others. As always, he was so tired after these sessions, so it was a welcome relief when his escort picked him up and carried him the rest of the way to the basement room they were kept in. Not nearly so considerate were his siblings, whose focal energy he tapped to enable the Mellenthin-entity to communicate with those off Terra. Even with the aid of the other six, Erik was a wreck every time, his too-young body struggling to maintain the link and reach the distance without being asleep. Using the subconscious was easier, but talents like these would need honing through conscious practice to be useful for real-world applications.

To be useful for warfare. Minovsky radiation meant nothing to the Commonality.

The Mellenthin-entity's demands were simple and absolute: only Erik could be a direct part of all this, as a representative as well as a leader. He could talk to the others afterwards, never during. It was equally an effort to keep what was being "sent" from the other six as it was to deliver the messages to the one mind they were destined for.

He closed his green eyes as his siblings assimilated what he told them. Their reaction was identical to his when he had been told: stunned amazement.

"It is truth," he repeated softly, too exhausted to shout tonight, in spite of the racket outside. "I do not know what altered his decision, but the plan has changed."

"But _this_?" burst one of the others. "How can we be certain?"

Erik smiled painfully; he knew the motive, but had been sworn to secrecy so deep it was fathomless. "He has no choice. He will do as he said."

"It has to be a trap," the speaker shook her head in denial. "If it were not, he would not surround all of this with such a shroud."

"Be at peace," Erik responded, fighting to stay conscious. So _tired_. . . "I have faith in the reason why. Besides, is it not better to hope for a home like that than the alternative? This is an acceptable outcome for all of us, and one that offers the best hope for our futures as much as the Unawakened."

They were silent at that one, and Erik knew they all shared that hope. He sighed. "To go there is to become War. This is a different path, one that gives more than a single option."

"But what about---?" dared one to begin, tears filling in eyes too old for the face that framed them.

In a strength-draining show of rare physical affection, Erik reached out a hand and brushed his fingers against the other boy's face. "Better this way, too, I think." He allowed the others to crowd around him, allowed himself to sink into their warmth. "They will come soon. Do as they say, and trust the rest to Fate, and to me."

He felt sleep claim him, nestled within the minds of his siblings. "Just this once, alone is best. . ."

**Hameln, Niedersachsen, Central Europe**

**November 23, 0087**

Von Mellenthin's eyes watched as Royce Foxe led an obviously-drained Erik out of the communications room by a cautious hand, not daring to lift the exhausted child into his arms and risk having his head played with, but the General's own mind was sifting through several dozen things at once, not really concentrating on any given one for more than a nanosecond of focus and then reshuffling. Almost simultaneously, information flowed from pattern to pattern.

The word had come in as he had dictated his final transmission to Axis, and to Haman Kahn. The radio had broken squelch once, and then "_Ready._" The word he had been waiting for. He had finished dictation, allowed Erik and his crèche-mates to strain their way to reach the distance he required of them to send the message to its intended recipient, and then ended the communication to Haman with the seed of his scheme planted and taking root.

The gists of the two transmissions were by no means identical.

After another few minutes of rumination, allowing the warm feeling of control to permeate his cells, he turned off the communications console with a finger, the time allotment for the reduction of Minovsky particle dispersal now at its limit. The ball was now rolling; it was time for him to make certain it fell into the right hole for Nemesis. He stood to his feet, took his greatcloak from the back of the chair, picked up the heavy black armored map case that held the key to Nemesis, and left the room, ascending the stairs with an ease and grace athletes longed to achieve.

"Spread the word, _Herr Oberstabsfeld_," he said as he crossed through the main room, heading for the foyer and the main entrance. He had no doubt his voice was audible throughout the entire building. "It's time we left this place. Give them three more hours or so to socialize, and then begin preparations for movement."

He swung open the door without bothering to wait for acknowledgement, letting the cold air slam across him in a great rush, and he donned the liger-skin greatcloak as he stepped down the stairs to the walkway, only setting down the map case long enough to fasten a clasp. He held very little worry about being mugged. The townsfolk had given his Zeon a wide berth since they'd gotten here, and there were very few human norms that would be able to lift the case without struggle in any event. He took a left and kept walking, neither hurrying nor being leisurely about it, boots scrunching the already-packed snow beneath his feet where the salting had not melted it into water. The temperature was not as cold this evening; excellent tidings for a _Fest_.

Fireworks continued to blaze, as the raucous clamor of the partying had not even begun to abate. It was barely 2330 hours; plenty of time left to revel. He paused occasionally to greet citizens, who looked at him with mixtures of dread and curiosity, allaying their fears with kind words when necessary, or reinforcing them with harsh smiles when they were needlessly rude. Von Mellenthin knew he was not going to endear himself to every local, but no one destined to rule all of Humankind was going to simply let disrespect slide, especially from cattle. As had been the case for most of his life, even the most insolent bravo tended to realign their perception when the subject of their dislike shot them a broad-toothed grin more closely related to a feral predator's than to a civilized human's.

They did not know what it was they reckoned with, not yet by far. Nemesis would change that. The weight of the case in his left hand seemed to increase imperceptibly, as if in response to his thoughts. Senses honed through years of environmental conditioning caught a sense of something, and von Mellenthin glanced behind him, eyes scanning, but could detect nothing. He walked on.

_If only it were so simple all the time_, he thought morbidly, passing another dance club, pausing to catch a listen to the house DJ's spin. _Progressive, maybe a little trance thrown in. Not a bad blend_. He was into a harder house sound, himself, a love which dated back to his days as a semi-rebellious raver and clubgoer in New Koenigsberg's racier areas. A full-blown rave would have fit his current mood better than this _Fest_: genial with a side order of dark menace. He was at least encouraged to note that allowing the _Buergermeister_ to go through with his _Volkstrauertag_ memorial bash was going very smoothly, and thus far no one had tried to harm his people. As he strode, he shot a cursory glance behind him towards the town center, where the largest gatherings were and, undoubtedly, so were most of his soldiers. He figured on a pretty good chance that Margul's _Kaempfer_ or perhaps van Allen's _Gelgoog Cannon_ was down that way, keeping a mono-eye on the partygoers. He presumed the _Gelgoog Cannon_, as a deterrent against the remnant of the Federation's Cerberus close-in air support attack helicopters. This was one of those holidays Margul would probably prefer to sit out anyway; losing Lacerta and Reiter had quieted him immensely.

If anything, losing Kerr had made Antares even noisier, another marked contrast between the two aces. Von Mellenthin had begun to be quite the recorder of marked contrasts in people. His boots turned his passage rightwards, and after a few more strides, he stepped into the courtyard of the St. Bonificatus Chapel, where his true trial of the night resided.

Though it was not in his nature to show or feel dread, he took the time to pause to gather himself anyway. This was another of his habits from his youth, a preparation ritual of sorts when about to do battle with the person who more often than not had tracked him down and dragged him home before he could get himself into more trouble than even his birth could dig him out of. He spared a glance at the tree in the middle of the yard, dead from winter chill, its growth suspended in a layer of frost and icicles until heat brought it back to wakefulness. It was eminently appropriate.

He cocked his head and listened to the wind, and a wry smile broke onto his face and he exhaled a breath he had held for longer than he had realized. A low lilting sound of a violin was on the air. _Is that was he's been doing this whole time?_ There was a brief flash of anger in von Mellenthin's thoughts, before he remembered that for all intents and purposes, Reinhardt von Seydlitz was without a job as a battalion CO. While he had been the one doing all the talking and negotiating and planning, von Seydlitz had chased the priests out of this old church, planted his _Gouf Custom_ beside Antares', and apparently began haunting the rectory. _Typical Reinhardt, so melodramatic_.

Von Mellenthin's smile grew larger as the sound of the violin began to increase. He knew the tune. He removed his gloves, cracked his knuckles, and picked up the case again, moving towards doors none had opened in days. He was ready.

He was watched.

The time had come for Father Thaddeus Duhamel of the Holy Catholic Church. It had been a long, long wait for this moment, as it had been a long, long wait for his summoning. He was forty-three years old, but he had spent only the last twenty of those in the service of God and the Church. In truth, the honorific of "Father" was not the correct one, for as versed as he was in Church doctrine and the teachings of Christ the Savior, he was not an anointed priest. The oath he'd sworn was a different one, but the title was suitable if only for the plausible deniability the Church would use if he was captured, killed, or failed his mission and either of those same events occurred in the process.

Thaddeus Duhamel was not even his real name, but he had spent two decades making it his own. His old name was as unimportant as the tremendous string of sins and depravity that he had filled his youth and adulthood with before he had found salvation. When those sins had come due, he knew that it was the Federation and not the Devil that had caught him in its snare, but Duhamel held very little doubt that it had been the Devil that had betrayed him. He had made himself the Devil's toy, and like a child, the Devil had cast him aside when he was of no further use. It had been the Devil who had whispered to him that fateful day in 0067, when he, starving and mad from poverty, had come like a plague through Livorno. It had been the Devil who had told him where he could find sustenance, if he could find the strength to overpower those whom it belonged to. He had done so, after spending three days turning a rake and truncheon into a crude _Morgenstern_ in a frantic fit of desperate creation. After five days and ten dead, the Devil had drunk his fill and left Duhamel to the authorities, who found him in a haybarn, dozing off the remains of his latest kill, who had once owned that haybarn. He was a match for an average citizen caught unawares and unarmed; he was no match for Federation police with shocksticks and Neo-Lexan riot shields.

He had been slated to spend the rest of his days in the Solicciano prison, under Federation guards who would chain him to a wall and leave him begging to die. Instead, inexplicably, he was delivered into the hands of a Catholic Priest, a member of Opus Dei whose name Duhamel never knew. Duhamel had never met anything like this Priest, who had walked into a room with a known and unsecured mass-murderer with no trace of fear or hesitation, and told angry Duhamel to his face that his sins were the sins of a dog and not a man, and that he would personally teach Duhamel what it was to be a man. The Priest had allowed Duhamel to spit on him, smiled, and then bashed Duhamel across the head with an iron cudgel he'd carried in beneath his robes. So began the lessons.

The Preist then took him away, deep into the Alps of Switzerland, and for almost fifteen years Duhamel became someone else. It was not an easy journey for the ex-convicted murderer, and there were many days where he went to sleep with welts and bruises. The Preist was utterly fearless, merciless when in discipline, and refused to give up on Duhamel even after Duhamel had long since given up on himself. After the first few years, the floor was just as comfortable a table to eat from than any other table Duhamel had ever sat. It also made for a convenient bed.

After a decade, the Priest told Duhamel he had finally learned to be a man, and he was allowed to stop living in the dirt. It was then time to learn what it was to be a man of God, to have a purpose for existence. Dogs lived day-to-day, carefree and without any goal save immediate succor and satisfaction; it was a man who set a goal and drove to it no matter how long it took, never ceasing the strive to obtain it. The Priest told him that war was coming, that there was an army of soulless people, like Duhamel had been, that were preparing to return from Space above and destroy all God's children on Earth because they were of the Devil's seed, and that their success meant that dogs would live where men should, and that they mocked the name of God and cursed His works. Only Duhamel and the Church could stop them, for the Federation had lost its way, trusting in guns when Faith was the only viable weapon against evil. The Priest explained that the Church had intervened with the Federation for Duhamel because the Church was going to need strong men of God like Duhamel to survive the Devil's legions.

Duhamel had believed the Priest, and two years later, the Zeon had struck with fire and steel from Space. To his great surprise, the Church did not directly intervene, even as Europe was swept underfoot by the army led by a tyrannical beast whom the Priest, then old and hale, had named Lucifer's son and heir. But things had not gone the way the Priest said they would, and in the end, the Zeon were cast down, the unholy Zavis slain, and the tyrant heir locked away by the Federation.

The Priest had died shortly after the War, but before he left, he told Duhamel that this war had _not_ been the one the Church was supposed to fight, but instead that there would be another. The Priest said that the Church would summon Duhamel when it was time for him to commit to final penance for his days as a dog and a man not of God, when he had spilt the blood of the innocent for greed and feast. Duhamel had remembered that while God forgave and forgot sins, the Church did not so readily and not without exacting its toll on Earth.

This year proved the Priest right, for after twenty years of training the Church summoned Thaddeus Duhamel to Rome to meet with a Cardinal from the Opus Dei prelature. The Cardinal explained that the tyrant heir had escaped captivity, and that he was in command again of a military unit, and that the Federation had been proven powerless to stop them. Duhamel had spent his years in virtual seclusion of worldly affairs and had no knowledge of any of this, but the Church did not lie. The Cardinal knew that the Priest had trained Duhamel for a single purpose. Duhamel's assignment was simple: kill Dietrich von Mellenthin.

The Cardinal had warned him what he was up against, and that the tyrant heir had a brother nearly equally as wicked, who had kept the followers of evil alive and prepared for the return of their master, and a laughing monkey-demon who killed for the pleasure of dispensing death and who followed the tyrant heir and his brother like a thrall. The Cardinal told him if he could kill all three, the Zeon were finished, but so long as von Mellenthin died their power on Earth would be so reduced that with the aid of the Church and God, the Federation would have the strength to thwart the Devil and protect the blessed of the Lamb. It was his duty as a numerary to succeed.

So "Father" Thaddeus Duhamel had gone to Hameln, lair of the tyrant heir, coursed through the armored wall of futility that the Titans had set around the city, and entered unseen into the midst of the citizens to fulfill the price of his salvation. The Church had armed him for his mission with a weapon chosen by the Holy See himself from the armory of the Swiss Guard. The pistol itself was nothing special, just one of dozens of identical pistols, but the bullets within it had been dipped in water from the same font dozens of Popes had blessed throughout the history of the Church. Duhamel, as he stood within the shadows outside St. Bonificatus Church, could feel the spiritual weight of the wrath of Mother Church in the cold steel of the pistol beneath his coat, the bullets screaming for the blood of the tyrant heir who held the people of this fair city hostage.

His decision made, Dietrich von Mellenthin strode the rest of the way across the courtyard. The sound of the violin grew louder, and his mind recognized the tune almost instantly. _Brahms, Reinhardt? Concerto for Violin in C Minor. A less-mournful tune, please, brother of mine. This one's so_ boring. His lips twisted in a bemused scowl at the idea of the Elector-Prince of Brandenburg-Preussen hiding in a church fiddling away at lamentable ditties. Disgusting. He could feel his ever-restless anger building within him the closer he drew to the cathedral, until he was there at the entrance.

With his free hand, von Mellenthin pushed open the doors to the cathedral, the great wooden flaps slamming against their stoppers with low _booms_ that reverberated throughout the great stone building. A blast of cold wind preceded his entry, making the greatcloak whip about as he stormed into the nave of the cathedral to the greeting tune of the violin, which did not break at his intrusion. Von Mellenthin unconsciously stamped snow and mud off his boots as he walked down the aisle between the pews, leaving his mark on the red carpet. He did not slow until he reached the halfway point, and the doors finally closed behind him with another low _thump_, shutting out the world.

Reinhardt von Seydlitz was perched on the altar at the head of the nave. At some point, he had swept it free of the trappings of religion, all the icons of hated Catholicism that had cast his _Folk_ into Space so long ago lying in a shambles on the floor. He was in his white uniform undershirt, the two topmost buttons undone, the long sleeves pushed up above his elbows, his black-haired head bowed over the violin, long fingers tweaking with the string tensions. After an adjustment, he began to play again. Von Mellenthin slowed further, and then stopped, staring at his foster brother from about eight pews back, as von Seydlitz put the bow to the strings, and Schmeker's Sonata in D Major trilled from the instrument, filling the cathedral. Von Mellenthin remained silent as the other man played, testing the tuning. Unsatisfied, von Seydlitz stopped and began to adjust the strings again.

With a voice full of scorn, even as he felt the telltale tingle of power that occurred whenever there were two or more of the Elector-Princes in the same location, von Mellenthin finally broke the silence. "Have we decided to become the Phantom of the Chapel, _Graf_ von Seydlitz? There is still a War on, in case no one informed you. Why are you hiding in here like a priest?"

Von Seydlitz's ice-gray eyes glanced at von Mellenthin, then turned back to the strings. The bow touched them again, and Biber's "Mystery" Sonata was the answer he gave.

Von Mellenthin's scowl grew deeper, and his eyes smoldered. "Oh, so now we think to use tunes as our speech? Is that the whole of it, Reinhardt? Letting an Earthborn fiddle act as the tongue you've had to bite even as you rebel against me?"

Von Seydlitz switched his music in mid-play, as the mocking sound of Paganini's Caprice for Solo Violin assailed von Mellenthin's ears. The "solo" part was not lost on the Zeon General, fuming in the hot chapel in his greatcloak. Von Mellenthin listened for a moment, letting von Seydlitz savor his little trick, then his scowl became a condescending grin.

"Oh, fear not, little fiddler, I've no intention of forcing you along with a plan you no longer have an interest in, though I thought I'd extend the invitation anyway, since the ship is now ready and we're leaving in a few hours. Don't ever think I'm not overwhelmed with gratitude for all you've done for Nemesis, Reinhardt, even if I'm not going to shed any tears over leaving you behind like a peasant until the Earthers castrate you, since you prefer to embrace cowardice and doubt instead of my plan." Von Mellenthin placed the armored map case on the floor and walked closer, eyes dancing with a daring fire. "You promised me, Reinhardt, remember? You promised me on your _knees_ at the Taunus! You said you would be the one who did not doubt me, and here you are. 'Judas' is too good a name for you, oathbreaker! I'll leave it to the cattle to name you when they find you in here, a crawling, mewling, verminous coward! All told, a fitting enough end to _second_-best at any rate, wouldn't you say?"

Von Seydlitz's face remained stone-impassive, but the music changed again as he refused to take the bait. To enhance his mockery of von Mellenthin, the violin emitted the unmistakable sound of Beethoven's Piano Sonata "Pathetique".

Von Mellenthin almost saw red, as de la Somme's words repeated themselves in his mind. "_He's not going to let you hit him with the hammer this time, Deet. . ._" Von Mellenthin unclasped the greatcloak, laying it across the armrest of the second pew, nodding in angry understanding. "Oh, is that so, orphan child? You dare to suggest that just because you and I have a difference in opinion as to what _I_ do with _my_ toys and _my_ people, you have something better in mind?" He could feel his teeth grinding together as he spat out the words. "All I see you doing is rotting in this building, Reinhardt. Congratulations on your productivity, _Hinterlader_. What have your lonesome ruminations granted to you as prophecy? What has languishing in this pen for sheep shown you the truth of?"

Von Seydlitz shifted his position on the altar, lounging across it like a sacrificial offering, and changed his tune again. More delicate than his previous plays, Handel's Concerto for Organ "Cuckoo and Nightingale" rose up from the violin, another slap to the idea that he needed von Mellenthin for anything.

Von Mellenthin's smile grew a little wider, though the menace in his eyes did not abate. "A challenge, then, to prove my skill is still better than yours, no matter the music you play. I win, you follow. I lose, and I'll let you challenge me for the right to lead." He began unbuttoning the tunic of his uniform, until he was in shirtsleeves as well. He stepped up onto the upraised dais, walked past the altar and von Seydlitz, who twisted to continue to look at him even as von Mellenthin tossed his uniform jacket onto von Seydlitz's outstretched legs as he passed by. Stroking a calloused hand across the wood, von Mellenthin surveyed his weapon for this duel.

With great pipes reaching to the top of the nave, the old organ that once served in the cathedral had been replaced with a more modern model that combined the power of the organ with the precision of the piano, easily interchanging between both with the flick of a switch for maximum versatility. The organ and piano pedals on the bottom were still present as well, a progressive combination of keyboards. Rolling up his sleeves, von Mellenthin reached back with a foot and dragged the wide bench towards the organ, settling himself down even as von Seydlitz continued to play Handel's timeless music.

In mid-note, with no detectable transition, von Mellenthin joined him. The duel had begun.

Von Seydlitz waited a few perfect bars, as the shrill of the violin blended with the powerful throb of the organ into a duet, before changing his attack into something vicious: Adagio for Strings Opus 11 #2, Barber's masterpiece, meant totally for stringed instruments.

Von Mellenthin, knowing von Seydlitz's preference for single overwhelming attacks, countered without a pause, switching to a deeper tone on the organ so as not to tread on the violin, using the low thrum as a background.

Von Seydlitz was obviously not expecting von Mellenthin to allow him to take the lead in the duel. Acknowledging the grudging favor, he changed over to Beethoven's Piano Concerto #5. Von Mellenthin shifted the organ to piano with ease and joined in.

Shooting a blue/green-eyed glance behind his shoulder at the nearly-supine von Seydlitz, he resumed the lead abruptly, Dvorak's Cello Concerto in A Minor thundering from the newly-enabled organ, nearly overpowering the higher tone of the violin in a piece meant for a throatier instrument. Von Seydlitz sat upright suddenly, his fingers flying across the violin's lower strains to compensate. Von Mellenthin wanted to smirk, as he'd managed to tear von Seydlitz from his comfort zone.

Instead of deflecting the music back to the exclusively-string composition, von Seydlitz stood to his feet and launched the deeper tone he had managed to achieve with his violin into a low intro into Schubert's Fantasia "Wanderer", forcing von Mellenthin into the higher ranges to keep up.

Stung, von Mellenthin withdrew into the background of Schubert, then riposted with Ravel's Piano Quartet Opus 47. They were both sweating profusely, the strain of their musical duel beginning to take its toll on them both as the music changed again, and again, and again. They had played together throughout their youth, often joining together for whole symphonies of duets with the keys and strings, learning each other's moods and language through music, but they had always chosen the pieces beforehand. This was impromptu, and each had to anticipate and compensate from both their vast mental libraries, all while maintaining the endurance of continuous play.

Transitioning away from Ravel, von Seydlitz altered their combined sounds into Philip Glass' Metamorphosis I, trying to slow his violin's frenetic tempo as he walked over to von Mellenthin's organ, looming over the other player for a few moments as he watched von Mellenthin's hands fly over the keys with long-remembered grace and power, a true master's mark; he played with his eyes closed, as though he could see the music in his mind.

Von Mellenthin felt a sudden heat at his back, and he opened his eyes, as von Seydlitz's sweat-soaked spine touched his. He could feel the play of bone, tendon, and muscle along the other man's shoulders and back as his arms moved and his playing positions changed. The violinist had sat down on the bench behind him, facing towards the door, leaning his more slender back against the broader one of his foster brother in a very un-Seydlitz show of physical intimacy. Von Mellenthin suddenly knew, without any further shadow of doubt, that it was not hate that had driven von Seydlitz to his doubts about Nemesis, or he never would have allowed the physical contact. Von Seydlitz was the less tactile of the two always, wary of the touches of those he did not trust completely, and that was a very, very short list.

Reinhardt von Seydlitz was afraid _for_ Dietrich von Mellenthin.

Eyes wide with shock at the message the music was speaking to him, von Mellenthin played on, in concert with his pseudo-rebellious brother, and knew he could not break von Seydlitz to his Will and have anything be the same ever again. Von Seydlitz had not broken his word to his Emperor; his Emperor had just stopped listening. Ever-calculating, his mind absorbed this new data, factored it into Nemesis as it stood, and made its decision in less time than three heartbeats took.

The plan shifted to another of his multitude of options. Dietrich von Mellenthin, Major-General of Zeon, _Graf_ von und zu Hessen, future Emperor of Man, yielded.

He changed the music again, allowing von Seydlitz to take the lead, deliberately reducing himself to supporting the violin in Tchaikovsky's "Swan Lake: Dance of the Little Swans" ensemble.

Von Seydlitz's tension seemed to bleed out as he put his whole weight against von Mellenthin's back, accepting the lead.

It began as almost a dirge, and then von Mellenthin transitioned it into Mozart's "Requiem: _Sanctus_", remaining the secondary and keeping the violin as lead, but enabling it so that his piano ran contra to the violin, high when low, and low when high. Coexistence in perfection, the way nothing else could be.

There was no transition, but instead a harmonious simultaneous leap from "_Sanctus_" to "_Dies Irae_", the violin and the piano sounding out unified melody to all who dared listen; frantic, unstoppable, and second to none. Fingers flew across keys as the bow licked strings in exact time and exact tone. They ended as a single entity, the last chord of the violin echoing and fading as one with the piano, and suddenly there was silence in the cathedral.

Von Seydlitz's sweating arms dropped the violin and the bow, as he craned his neck backwards until his skull lay on von Mellenthin's shoulder. The elder of the two could detect trembling, relief shaking von Seydlitz's frame, could feel the heart beating throughout the other Elector-Prince, smell the scent that was von Seydlitz, and his hands dropped from the keys of the great organ, his fingers interlacing with von Seydlitz's as they sat together, eyes closing, content.

"Please don't leave me alone, Reinhardt," he whispered. He would never have said those words to anyone else.

"As you will, Dietrich."

Duhamel knew that the brother had taken up residence within the house of God, driving out the priests and desecrating the interior of the great cathedral with unspeakable horrors within. The chanting lilt from the violin Duhamel could hear even a block away, sounding to him like the laments of all the souls these men had killed since they had come to Earth. When the organ joined in, he could not help but shudder in revulsion. That creatures like them could make such music was an affront to all God's works, and he chastised himself for enjoying the sounds. It was a relief when it finally ended, the noise of the _Fest_ downtown and the bursts of fireworks all that broke the silence that descended.

The pistol was incomparably heavy now, so heavy that Duhamel wondered if he had the strength to ease its weight, for his own soul's sake as well as the world's. The snow had begun to fall harder, fat flakes of it cascading from the sky to cover the Earth in white. Duhamel was convinced it was a sign that this was the day the world was cleansed of Dietrich von Mellenthin forever. He only barely stopped himself from executing both of the hellspawn as they played their instruments, but to shed blood in the house of God was just as horrible a sin as what these two had inflicted on countless souls. Duhamel prayed for patience, for the knowledge to know when it was time to pull the trigger and release it all.

As he stood outside, waiting, he was reminded of what the Priest had taught him, a tale from the Holy Book of Daniel. By rote, he began to whisper the passages, the words traveling from his lips in white puffs of condensation.

"'And he shall speak great words against the most High, and shall wear out the saints of the most High, and think to change times and laws; and they shall be given into his hand until a time and times and the dividing of time.

"'But the judgment shall sit, and they shall take away his dominion, to consume and to destroy it in the end.'"

And the pistol no longer had any weight at all.

"That is the biggest pile of cow's shit I have ever heard leave your mouth," accused von Seydlitz with a laugh as he wrestled the top of the altar off its base. The stone weighed a good 150 kilos, but he made it look almost effortless as he set it side-down on the carpet.

"It's true, though," declared von Mellenthin. "I'd already changed the plan before our little contest." He dropped the armored map case into the hollow of the altar base, brushing his hands free of grit after he and von Seydlitz moved the top back in place. "Why else would I be taking this precaution?"

"Save face all you wish, brother, but you and I both know it is just a jape." Von Seydlitz ducked as the shorter man took a swipe at him with a hand. "Let us assume for a moment that this ludicrous fable of yours is true---"

"Yes, just for a moment, let's," remarked von Mellenthin dryly.

"---then if that were the case, you have already changed your negotiations with all the parties involved?"

Von Mellenthin began buttoning his uniform top. "It wasn't until last night that I realized that I could just as easily gain what we need for Nemesis without having to give Haman prospective weapons against us later. I can accomplish the same result using guile, still get what I want, and then seal us from any treachery even as we get handed the keys to Axis itself." He fastened the last button. "There is a copy of the Federation's NewType data in my _Zaku_'s central memory core. The original set and the remainder of our Zurich gold supply is here in Hameln," he patted the altar top, "along with our NewTypes, as part of the contract that we won't just blow the city apart from Space when we renew the War on our terms. The _Buergermeister_ and the Bishop have already agreed to take the children off our hands. They'll handle all the living arrangements and integrate them into a society not wholly inclined to just hand them over to a Federation that took a shit on their wishes about gene-tampering."

"Very well then," if von Seydlitz could smirk, he would have, "you are going to leave the children here, all except one to maintain appearances, elude the Titans, and go through with Nemesis without having to pay for it. Where is the guarantee for even so much as one of those pieces to fall into place perfectly? What makes you so certain that Axis will roll over for you on a whim?"

Von Mellenthin tossed von Seydlitz's uniform top at him, and then a small smile formed on his face, but his eyes were filled with a strange glow that von Seydlitz had seen only once before.

Von Mellenthin spoke only one word, but he could not contain the level of tremulous emotion from his voice, and it almost wavered. "Vala."

There was a pause, as the breath caught in von Seydlitz's throat, and he found he could not reply after all. A tiny shiver, so minute as to be almost unnoticeable, coursed over the other man, and the gray eyes widened into something a mixture of awe. . .and a desire so powerful it was painful to see.

For his part, von Mellenthin did not dare laugh. This was a button even he lacked the courage to push in von Seydlitz, though it had been on his mind lately as just the thing to punish his rebellious Colonel with. Seeing this reaction, however, was enough to convince von Mellenthin that it was probably higher wisdom to leave it as was.

They would always have that between them, the gulf that no amount of love could ever bridge, the living sum of what it meant to rule or be ruled.

Von Seydlitz swallowed, just once, but his voice remained a harsh whisper. "How can you---? How did---?" He clenched a trembling fist. "How much have you not revealed to me, Dietrich? How many secrets are you still keeping from me? Tell me how you _know_!"

"Come, brother," said von Mellenthin calmly, throwing an arm around von Seydlitz's shoulder, fastening the greatcloak around his neck with his free hand and not answering the questions. "We have a _Fest_ to attend and a ship to catch." He smiled ferally at the still-gaping von Seydlitz. "I told you to leave Axis to me, didn't I? The situation is well in hand, and soon, so shall the Titans be."

Duhamel had chosen his spot on the assumption that his target would not double-back along the route he had taken to get there. The arrogant and self-absorbed never suspected that there would be any danger to them, and so they took no precautions. The tyrant and his brother would finish their little concert, and then Duhamel would kill them both, one at a time, on the street like dogs. The Church had warned him that they were deadly, but Duhamel had already seen that von Mellenthin was unarmed; no sidearm hung at his waist or his shoulder. He, the primary target, would die the death of a helpless victim. The other had not left the church in two days, but no doubt would come running when his brother was cut down. Duhamel would gun him down in mid-stride. The third one he had not seen yet, but Duhamel would find him and kill him, too, and then he could go back with a cleansed soul in the eyes of both God and Church.

The doors opened, and Duhamel whispered another prayer for strength as both of them emerged from the confines of the Church. _Both of them at once. Deliver them into my power, oh Lord!_ The pistol renewed its song for justice, and as the two crunched their way across the courtyard, speaking closely punctuated by almost boyish behavior, including tossing handfuls of snow at each other and shoving at each other. Their human disguises were very real and very convincing, but Duhamel knew them for what they both were. _Wolves. Nothing more than ravening wolves_.

He had chosen wrongly. They were heading back in the same direction that the tyrant heir had come from. He pondered waiting for a more opportune time, but his decision had been finalized when von Mellenthin had left his den without an escort. This was the day, all the signs had pointed to it. Gritting his teeth, he followed, never taking his eyes from them.

_The case. . .he didn't bring out the case! Where is it? Still inside the Church? Why?_ The image on the screen zoomed closer to the two at the command of the _Kaempfer_'s pilot. True to von Mellenthin's theory, Vladimir Margul had not attended the _Fest_. He had no desire whatsoever to engage in socializing with these vile Earthenoids, much less his stuck-up colleagues and that thrice-damned de la Somme. He was just as capable of drinking beer inside a mobile suit as he could outside of one, and the suit provided him easier means of spying on his superiors while they had no idea they were even being watched.

Margul had been doing a lot of thinking, both on the run up to this hovel of a township and while they had been besieged here. Never one to go around talking about himself to others, he had retreated away from the rest of the unit, letting them all go about as they pleased, kissing von Mellenthin's ass, but this did not infer that he'd been blind to all that had been happening. He had laughed when he'd found out that the high-and-mighty von Seydlitz had fallen out of favor with his boss. He had watched as de la Somme, the little shit, had spent countless hours repairing the damage to his precious mobile suit, and even more hours trying to keep everyone from going bonkers in this predicament that the 'Lion' had put them all in. For himself, Margul could not see a way out of this. Every watch period, every perimeter patrol, there were Titan mobile suits watching him back. The black-and-red enemy outside waited patiently for them, to finish them off once and for all, more firepower and technology than the entire 10th had fielded during the War, in a unit half its size.

Margul had no intention of being a corpse here. He began to dwell on what he could do to escape the myriad of dilemmas he found himself in.

There were several pieces to the puzzle, he knew. Neither of his superiors, thanks to drizzle-mouth 'Killing Star' and his idiotic ravings about him, trusted Margul with any more information than was absolutely necessary for him to do his job. Never had he been within their confidence. Fact was, he did not want to be their friend, or even their lackey. With the losses of Lacerta and Reiter at _Teutobergerwald_, he no longer had any use for any of these losers. His upbringing as the son of a Ukrainian deportee on one of Side 3's scummier colonies had taught him that in order to live, one had to care only about oneself. Anyone else was a necessity only as long as they were useful; better to exploit them and sell them out as soon as possible, then move on, just like he had his bitch of an ex-wife. He had moved from one colony to another until the War, dragging the whore with him, scratching out a living as a vagrant until he had been conscripted into the Zeon Armed Forces. Rather than be another faceless meat shield, he had opted to go officer and command rather than be _Graf_ed over by just any fuckwad. He went to war as a commissioned officer, beginning as a company CO in the 2nd Shock Battalion.

He confessed that the life had been good. All the basic amenities were free, and he got to kill with virtual abandon. He excelled at killing; crushing the weak had been a thrill almost as good as sex. His rank rose along with his accolades. In a mobile suit, he was a god, and he had ruled supreme on the battlefield until Bayreuth, and the coming of Antares de la Somme. His situation had ground to a halt after that, and after Dornbirn, it had begun to deteriorate into vanilla-plainness. He was a good killer; de la Somme was a veritable embodiment of slaughter with purpose. To make matters worse, the arrival of the diminutive prick had a strange effect on both von Mellenthin and von Seydlitz. Both had been excellent soldiers and pilots before, but with de la Somme united with them, they had become berserkers of a whole new caliber. With one reversal of roles, Margul had been relegated to second-best, then third, then fourth. . .if not for the disaster at the Garonne River and the later Battle of Poitiers, who knew how many more would have challenged him? Losing half the Division at Paris did not rid him of de la Somme. Losing the rest of the Division at Metz had also failed to slay the 'Killing Star', though it had rid him of several more prospective rivals, including that conniving ratfucker Gyar. He commanded 2nd Shock's remains by that point, but it was an empty rank and he got it by being the highest-ranking survivor of the battalion, not for his skill as a field-grade officer. Vladimir Margul had not been at peace until von Seydlitz sent de la Somme into space with more gold than any one man should have been left to tend.

That was a big piece of what lay at the heart of Margul's discontent. He felt cheated of what was rightfully his. He had been at Zurich when the city was sacked; by rights a good chunk of that gold was his. Instead, von Seydlitz had stolen it from him, from all of them, and given it to de la Somme as a bargaining tool with those Lunarian pimps who had bought out Zeonic and Zimmad corporations and taken over the bulk of mobile suit production. When de la Somme had come back and _still_ had gold left over, Margul finally thought his due had come in. Again, von Seydlitz denied him, and the gold had spent all its time in a certain black armored case that had rarely left the hands of either von Mellenthin or von Seydlitz. Hell, the Colonel had practically _given_ it to von Mellenthin within hours of his return!

So Margul kept his sights on that case whenever he could. Gold could move mountains. Gold had gotten them their mobile suits, their magnetic grid, their plastic white phosphorus grenade smokescreen, and a dead Federation mobile suit company in the space of five minutes. Gold could do anything and everything, including buy clemency for his past crimes from the Titans. Gold could take Vladimir Margul everywhere that spilling blood for some lofty indefinable ideal only a handful of people in Side 3 would even recognize could not.

Gold could even buy him his life. De la Somme thought he was clever, thought he was slick, but Margul knew. Gyar had told him back at Metz, before von Mellenthin's capture, that de la Somme had cut a deal with the General, a small promise that as long as the War went on, he would not butcher Margul like a pig for Dornbirn. The slimy shit had almost gloated over it, using the knowledge to chastise him over some slight. Gyar had always been more noble than he was worth, volunteering to kill himself like some movie hero to save the whole unit's bacon. Gyar had laughed when he told Margul that von Mellenthin had agreed to the deal with no hesitation, so Margul had known for nearly a decade that he was on borrowed time. Margul supposed that made them even, since he had laughed when Gyar had blown himself into a plasma stain. But his greatest problem still lived; he had hoped that de la Somme's skills would have lessened during his time in Space, but he had been hoping in vain. De la Somme was going to come for him someday, and for all his cutesy antics, weird conventions, and fawning over schoolkids, de la Somme was a remorseless murderer. Ironic that with one 120mm round, Margul had been marked for death, but after all the slaughter de la Somme had inflicted on Terra and in Space, he was a veritable hero. To make matters even worse, de la Somme was protected against nearly all forms of attack, even outside of a mobile suit. Margul was even hesitant to try and strangle the little pilot in his sleep, consumed with terror over what von Mellenthin would do to him.

Oh, he knew well von Mellenthin's temper and utter ruthlessness when angered. He knew all von Mellenthin's dark secrets, including the one at Luxembourg that would have gotten the General executed by the Zavis if Kishiria had ever found out what he had done to her pet officer, Brigadier General Atherly. Margul had seen many, many things in his erstwhile life, but he had never seen anything to rival von Mellenthin's unspeakable rage that day. He could still hear the screams and the sounds of tearing if he closed his eyes and thought back to that incident; he had never known flesh could _sound_ like that. He had personally torched the TOC tent afterwards into a pile of ash; there was no way it could have been sterilized after the atrocity von Mellenthin had done with Atherly. The smell was something he rediscovered in his dreams.

As much as he hated to admit it, there were very few times in the last month that he had slept soundly, and if he were the kind of person to dwell on the past as a whole, he had spent every day of the last eight years in the company of people he was genuinely frightened of.

The camera lens zoomed again and focused. It would be so easy to ratchet a shell into the _Kaempfer_'s shotgun and vaporize both of them from six blocks away. They'd never escape the spread at this range, whatever the hell they were. They even seemed happy again. It would be a blessing to kill them both while they were content to be together. But it would not end de la Somme. Always another noose around Margul's neck, especially since Margul had already come to the conclusion that the 'Killing Star's patience with his deal was coming to an end. Gun camera footage was replayable indefinitely, and with as many times as he had watched it, he had convinced himself that de la Somme had tried to kill him at Steinbaum. If Reiter had not gotten in the way, the poor dumb kid from an abusive family who lived only for the thrill of combat with the 2nd Shock, that single 75mm round that de la Somme's _Gouf Custom_ fired in the middle of the fighting would have struck Margul's own thin-skinned suit in the pilot's hatch. He was certain of it. So perfect a shot, in the midst of an impenetrable cloud of superheated smoke, snapping back a single blast without so much as looking. Only de la Somme could do it, and so he had taken the chance. What a horrible 'accident' it would have been to have a stray shot take out 'Demon' Margul on the battlefield, ridding the universe of a 'child-killing brute'. Nice and neat, that; had he not been the intended corpse, Margul would have laughed and clapped at the tidiness of the plan.

De la Somme had fed on Reiter's soul that day instead of his; Margul had no more shields to ward off the next attack, not unless they were painted red and black. Putting a wall of Titans between he and de la Somme, paid for in gold, was his only hope of survival in any kind of future.

Von Mellenthin had gone into that chapel with the case, and come out of there without it. Margul chewed on a thumb thoughtfully as the main camera swung towards the St. Bonificatus Church, letting his superiors go. . .this time.

"I can not believe you let him talk to you like that," remarked von Seydlitz as they walked. "You never let Antares' tantrums move you when we were younger. Do not tell me that was what convinced you to alter your plan, because I will not believe that for an instant. You have never taken Antares' advice before, no matter if he was right or not."

Von Mellenthin sighed. "Ordinarily, I'd agree with that, but then I thought to myself: 'What kind of plan do I have if my best friend doesn't trust it and my bratty little brother sees right through it?' I mean, think about it, if _Antares_ can see the wrinkle in the mix, surely Haman Kahn has."

Von Seydlitz snorted, or came as close to it as he could. "Haman Kahn sees too much at any rate."

"Hence my insurance. I won't be turning over the children to her, not if I can't even convince my brothers that it's a good idea." Von Mellenthin ran a hand over a snow-covered fence rail, brushing it off. "Only the Race deserves to benefit from the Federation's quaint little experiments, no one else."

Von Seydlitz smiled thinly. "No pouting. You can not help that you can be a helpless _Kamuff_ without our guidance."

"Fuck you, Reinhardt." The sounds of the _Fest_ were growing louder as they drew closer. Human traffic was also picking up, though most were giving the Zeon officers a wide berth as they passed.

Von Seydlitz dodged a couple of clowns, laughing and cavorting, who blew confetti at him with a deft spin, keeping up with von Mellenthin's determined stride to escape being made fun of. "It is not your fault. It was the Field that did this to you. _Zacken aus der Krone brechen_ and all that." The colloquialism was one suited for the moment, accusing him of having 'broken something off his crown' to admit the mistake.

"_Hoer doch auf_, Reinhardt," laughed von Mellenthin, boots stamping through the ice without skidding off the cobblestones the way other people were, "_mir auf die Eier zugehen!_"

"If you think I am the one busting your balls, wait until I tell Antares he was the one that had you doubting." Von Seydlitz dodged away from another deluge of snow.

"You'll keep your damn mouth shut and like it, _Oberst_, or I'll yank your tongue out with my _Zaku_."

As they stepped around the corner, the party unfolded before them. The town center was jam-packed full of people. Throngs and throngs of people too terrified to leave their homes since the coming of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ into their lives were out in force now. A stage, obviously a pre-fab set, had been set up at the end of the square, with music more resembling modern electronic trance than anything else. There was a mass of bodies at that stage, moving to the thumping bass of the DJ on stage, lost in the music and the moment, a light show silhouetting some and illuminating others with a strobe-like effect. Both of the Zeon could feel the music through their boots, punctuated by the stamp and howls of the crowd. There were _Polizei_ everywhere, children running pell-mell through the crowds to avoid them, scamming beer wherever they could, probably pick-pocketing to boot. The smell of beer was pervasive, blending with the scents of greasy food, human sweat, smoke. Another barrage of fireworks sailed into the air, detonating above them, adding their multihued illumination to the sea of faces around them. A beer tent was at the far end of the square, probably filled with people and most of the Zeon soldiers.

The noise was incredible, and von Mellenthin grabbed his brother's arm and dragged him closer, subvocalizing into von Seydlitz's ear that they should move towards the tent. The other man nodded in understanding and gestured that he wanted to lead. Von Mellenthin shook his head, insistent, and von Seydlitz relented, following. The crowd swallowed them within it instantly, but they moved through it without obstacle, the force of their Wills opening paths through the multitude as though they could not be touched. Even the heavily-inebriated moved to the side, and the baritone laugh of von Mellenthin broke through even the din of thousands of voices and the clamor of the bands.

Margul lost sight of them when they walked into the crowd, their hotter-than-normal bodies showing only glimpses in the IR spectrum of the mob. No matter. He had his plan now. Shutting the _Kaempfer_ down to Standby mode, he popped open the hatch, wincing as the cold air slapped him across his ruddy face, and he rubbed his hands across his cheeks to warm them, grabbing his jacket as he exited. He zipped down the egress line the way only a veteran pilot could and sprinted to the St. Bonificatus Church's door. He knew von Seydlitz never locked the doors; as amoral a being as he was, he could have cared less if the cathedral was ransacked and burned by Vandals while he was away.

Margul swept into the nave, narrow eyes roaming everywhere. This church was huge, with a thousand possible hiding places for that goddamn case. Desperate, he began moving through the pews, meaty hands sweating in anticipation of finding what he sought, and in dread that he would get caught in the meantime. He left the nave and began tearing through offices, kicking doors apart where he found them locked.

Duhamel nearly panicked when the saw the crowd and no sign of either of his quarry. His eyes darted frantically from face to face in the throng, not recognizing any of them as Zeon, much less those he intended to kill. The noise was a wave, assaulting his senses as he desperately sought his victims. No sign of them lay on the outskirts of the mob, and so he virtually dove into the multitude. How many people in this mess were Zeon generals in cloaks made from dead animals? Duhamel was certain it was only a matter of time before they showed themselves; their kind could not hide in a crowd for long without needing to be the center of all the attention. He struggled onward, seeking, but the crowd resisted his best efforts to move through them quickly.

"P-please!" he pleaded to nearly-deaf ears, even his own. "Please let me by!"

The beer tent was jam-packed. Another stage, a wooden one, had been put up on the far corner of the tent, adjacent to the bar, where a more traditional folk band played drinking songs and humorous anecdotes to a drinking crowd. A miasma of all forms of tobacco smoke inundated the atmosphere of the big canvas tent. The bar had a grill, which sizzled as it fried meat, vegetables, potatoes, peppers, onions; the scents were potent enough to pierce even the smoke.

Von Mellenthin rubbed his hands together in something resembling glee. "Ahhh, this is more like it, Reinhardt! Let's find some space at a table and---," he was cut off in mid-sentence by a raucous laughter on the side of the tent that was furthest from the band. "I think I've found some of our people."

"Your assessment is accurate," Von Seydlitz's sharp eyes saw 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ gray and gold in the midst of the civilians. "Looks like most of them are in here, probably finishing off one last drink before Ogun gives them their movement orders."

Von Mellenthin glanced at his wrist chrono. "Should be another half an hour before then. Grab us some beer and we'll go see what mischief they're up to."

The taller man shook his head. "I will not be indulging tonight, sorry."

The General reached up and patted von Seydlitz's cheek, daring a swat. The expression on his face was almost mournful. "Not up to drinking with me tonight, Reinhardt?"

It was almost imperceptible, but von Mellenthin saw his foster brother's harsh eyes soften briefly, almost in apology. "No. . .no, it is not like that at all, Dietrich." His voice was quiet, enough so von Mellenthin almost had to strain to hear it over the commotion.

The General studied von Seydlitz for a brief moment, then decided now was not the time to ask. "Very well, then. Go tend to whatever it is needs tending, _Oberst_. Don't be late."

Von Seydlitz glanced back at him once before walking back out the tent door, but made no verbal reply. To von Mellenthin, it looked almost as though he were running away from something.


	22. Chapter 21

**MSG: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed**

**Chapter 21**

**Hameln, Niedersachsen, Central Europe**

**November 24, 0087**

_There he goes again_, noted John Roberts as his _Gelgoog Marine Commander_'s mono-eye tracked the red-and-black Titan suit as it cruised over the Weser towards the west. His fixation on this particular suit was, for him, the observation of an enigma in action. The majority of the enemy used _Zaku_-like mono-eyed mobile suits or an upgraded GM-type. . .this suit, taller than most of the others, was a totally different design, sharing an eerie resemblance to Zeon design philosophy that was combined with a frame that was unlike anything the Marine had seen before. It did not move like the other Titans' suits moved, or like anything the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ had in their mixed-bag inventory. Roberts did not like having to deal with the unknown, and this suit qualified. He had been casually stalking it for days now, since it was the most active and mobile of the enemy's units that surrounded their position and moved between both the east and west ends of Hameln's cordon every day. When it had first showed up, it had carried a shield; now it seemed to disdain even bothering with one. He supposed it belonged to someone in a command position among the Titans, and it was always a good idea to know whose head you wanted to hunt on the battlefield.

The Titan suit's mono-eye, which had been scanning Hameln as though checking whether or not there was a Zeon mobile suit missing from its usual position, suddenly froze and locked onto Roberts' suit. He watched the enemy suit slow, silently envying the Titan's ability to maintain some semblance of flight in Terra's gravity well, and then come to a complete pause; the beam rifle in its hands snapped up into a ready-fire position, drawing a bead on the _Gelgoog_.

_Too slow, Titan; I've got you dead to rights whenever I want you._ Roberts stared at the hovering Titan, his _Gelgoog_'s own MRB-110 beam rifle trained on the strange suit, as it had been the entire time since the enemy had come into his viewing range. He was tired, but he was no slouch and not prone to complacency. The enemy was in a fixed position in the air, an open target; Roberts had situated himself with a building in front of his _Gelgoog_ and two others covering his flanks, his suit's head and shoulders the only visible portions above the rooftops. He knew full well that a building would offer him little coverage from a beam weapon, but it could make the difference between a disabling shot and a killing one. Roberts was in a position to make his every shot a killing one if the Titan wanted to dance that dance with him.

Roberts was suddenly reminded of the briefing de la Somme gave them in Berchtesgaden, when they had first hacked their new suits out of the compression foam-filled cargo containers. He had rambled on about each suit as they broke them out, passing out the technical manuals to each suit's pilot according to the distribution list von Seydlitz had detailed. The ebullient ace had tossed a thick spiral binder at Roberts, and then smirked like the cat who just realized that his claws could fit into the mouse cage. "_Now _you've_ got a beam rifle too! Ho! Ho! Ho!_" had been the line he had quipped as the Marine's eyes had devoured the cover of the TM: MS-14FS GELGOOG MARINE (COMMAND-TYPE)

Roberts smiled his tiny little smile now at the memory; it was so much easier on a level playing field. _Take your best shot any time, Feddie. I'll be waiting._

The Titan suit shifted to the left, a quick little jink spurred by a flicker of its verniers. Roberts automatically corrected his sight picture, the beam rifle scraping across the roof of the building he was using as cover; shingles broke free to clatter on the street several floors below, most shattering into ceramic shards at the feet of the _Gelgoog_. His gaze flicked over his HUD, but the telltale yellow blinking light that signaled that an enemy had him target-locked failed to appear. The Titan was testing him, but not willing to commit. . .yet. Barely four kilometers separated them; this close, even with the _Zaku_ in the center of town spewing Minovsky radiation across the atmosphere, they were close enough that IR targeting was spotty but very possible.

He could almost sense the frustration emanating from the other pilot as their suits glared at each other, but he remained calm. Behind his _Gelgoog_, Hameln partied on, blissfully ignorant that Hell was one trigger squeeze away. One shot was all it would take, and more than fireworks would light up the gloomy night sky. It would be an urban slugfest, not the first one he and his Marines had been in since the whole War had begun. They would all die, Roberts was no fool about the chances of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ against nearly nine times their number, but it would be such a glorious end. . .finally. An end that had been denied them for nearly a decade, denied them at Metz. If there was any way to go, Roberts could think of no better one than to go down in a battle that would be talked about for centuries, combatting a bigger, badder foe. He had been through too many fights to just fade away without going down in a big one, if he had to go at all. The Titans were the big boys; he would take them all with him if he had to.

But then, Roberts was not ready to die just yet. That was why he and his Marines followed von Mellenthin; Roberts knew the General was not ready to die yet, either. There was more to follow than a dirty end in Hameln, more battles to wage, and Roberts trusted von Mellenthin to have a place for him and his boys in the fight. No peaceful deaths for the Zeon Marines, because that fate was reserved for the useless and old. Roberts did not earn every scar he had by being useless and old. Marines died in their boots, fighting, not in their beds, coughing.

Then, the spell was broken. Roberts was not a man inclined to childish imagination and attaching human characteristics to machines, but he could have sworn the Titan mobile suit actually looked _petulant_ as it kicked on its boosters and veered away, continuing westward to its destination. A big tough guy caught unawares by an unassuming little man in a high-performance suit nearly a decade old. He snorted quietly and watched the dwindling thruster glow until the white spot in his thermals faded into the static.

_I hope you took a good, long look, Titan,_ he glanced over at his chronometer, and his grin grew a little wider, _because it's the last you'll be seeing of us until you see us coming for you in Hell._

The chrono _beep_ed twice. Midnight, now the 24th of November. Roberts settled back in his seat. "Time's up," he said quietly.

-----------------

With a bellow of fury, Vladimir Margul threw the remains of the last intact violoncello across the instrument room to shatter against the stone wall, its strings breaking as their tension was released, warbling through the air in a hideous mockery of the notes they held. Enraged, his boots smashed and kicked through the debris he had generated in his wrath; twisted remains of brass, woodwinds, strings, every conceivable instrument to outfit an orchestra, destroyed. Nothing. He'd tossed every room in the cathedral, but there was no sign of the map case or the gold. _Where'd they fucking hide that goddamn thing!_ This was insane. He saw what he saw and knew it had to be in this building, but where? He stomped out of the instrument room, his legs kicking pieces out of his way as he moved into the littered hallway. He had devastated every room he had gone through; he'd even looted the sacramental wine. His hands slapped portraits of saints and ecumenical artwork and scripture from the walls, their frames clattering across the floor to be crushed beneath his boots or torn by the rest of the litter. Turning a corner, he blew through the nave like a bad wind, eyes roaming through the pews again in case he missed it the first time, but there was still no sign of what he sought. He resisted the impulse to start tipping the pews, but there were quite a lot of them and he didn't have that kind of time. That was for play, like all pillage was.

But where was the _stupid case?_ Sweat dripped down his forehead, stinging his eyes as anxiety began to build. This was his chance for salvation, his only chance, and there was no sign of it in a church. The irony did not escape him. Snarling in frustration, he gave one pew a hard push, and the wooden bench dutifully shifted position, the legs squealing across the stone of the floor and its thin carpet covering. Suddenly, the staring eyes of all the murals and stained glass windows were too much for him to take.

Fed up with the futile search, he shoved open the big wooden doors and left the cathedral, nearly slipping on an icy patch on the stairs in his haste to get out of the cold and into the warmth of his _Kaempfer_. Cursing, he clambered up the numbing, steely hide of the mobile suit and keyed open the hatch, letting the blast of warm air wash over as he climbed inside.

The radio was beeping, and Margul began to sweat again. "How long has it---?" he asked aloud before reaching a beefy hand out to flip the RECEIVE switch. "_WHAT?_" he snapped.

"_Nice of you to acknowledge transmission, Raver One_." It was Weissdrake amidst the static wash, and Margul fought the urge to spit. "_Out taking a leak?_"

"Yeah, on your mom's fucking gravestone, Scarface. What the fuck do you want?" He kneed the hatch control button, and the cockpit sealed with a hermetic-suction sound.

"_Just thought you might want to know that Onslaught Two is about to initiate movement to SP. Think you can find it in you to sober up enough to keep eyes on the western hostiles while he makes his move?_" While the words might have seemed almost cheery, Weissdrake's voice oozed contempt and displeasure even through the radio; he must have been calling for some time.

Margul glanced at the cockpit chrono as he settled into his chair, kicking on the active sensors with another knee movement. Sure enough, McKenna was about to start this thing off. "Yeah, I got Tinker covered. Tell him to get in gear and not take up too much space with his fat-ass suit."

"_I'm sure he'll be charmed that you're so concerned about the space issue. Airborne One, out_."

"Fuck off." The retort went unheard, as Weissdrake had already broken contact, but Margul said it nonetheless. He flicked the main camera to IR and brought a secondary online to view eerie-green starlight vision. Carefully, he made the _Kaempfer_ rise up to kneel on one knee. He stowed the shotgun in the backpack storage rack and brought one of his longer-range 360mm bazookas down into the crook of the left elbow at the ready-fire position. Let a Titan twitch wrong; Margul was good enough he could hit with the bazooka at four klicks out using IR and eyeballs. The thumb of the mobile suit flicked off the safety, automatically chambering a shell into the weapon.

The map case all but forgotten, Margul stopped praying for salvation, and he began to hope for somebody to do something stupid.

McKenna's _Dom_ looked almost ridiculous as it high-crawled its way down _Sudetenstrasse_ until it hit the _Langer Wall_, which sloped downward on the far side into the Weser River; an immense camouflaged turtle that was using the buildings as cover to avoid being seen by the Titans' suits, crawling on its belly using its elbows and knees to move forward. It more resembled swimming than crawling. Amused, Margul watched the suit swing one of its immensely huge legs over the barrier between the street and the river and sort of drag/roll itself over, McKenna deftly maneuvering the suit to keep his 360mm bazooka and his MMP-80 from dragging on the concrete too much. It was too dark to tell, but Margul could swear he saw paint scraped off the belly of the mobile suit as it heaved itself over the wall, managing not to crush it into rubble in the process. Then, with barely a pause, the Marine's _Dom_ slid into the river, weapons and all, until only the head, mono-eye, and heat saber's hilt broke the surface of the water.

The Titans had not moved; McKenna was in the river, and Margul keyed two squelches on his radio as the signal: _All Clear_.

McKenna's suit began its slow duck-walk on the river bottom, moving northwest towards the covered quay where La Vesta and his suits waited, along with _RMS Ruhrort_. The big machine was crouching, as the river's level was too shallow to cover that much of the suit when it stood upright. Margul made a mental note of that for when his own time to move to the ship came; his _Kaempfer_ was shorter than most of their other suits, but not by much. He, too, would have to duck-walk.

In five minutes, Roberts' _Gelgoog Marine Commander_ would make its move. Margul hoped the Titans were too stupid to figure out this ploy. In spite of his doubts earlier, Margul began to dare to hope this would work.

**Titans Line (West), Niedersachsen, Central Europe**

**November 24, 0087**

The _Barzam_ touched down with the briefest flare of its ankle thrusters, slowing the huge machine into a ballerina's tiptoe as it settled back to the ground. A gust of exhaust and dust blew over the two Titans techs that stood to greet the suit, and they shielded their eyes until the mobile suit finished its landing, kneeling down on one knee in a similar fashion to the other suits parked in the laager area just outside 2nd Battalion's TOC; three _Hizacks_, one of them Captain Nico Palaccio's _Hizack Custom_, knelt in a line, inactive mono-eyes facing towards Hameln. One of the techs ran to attach a fuel line to the _Barzam_, while the other waited for the pilot to finish his shutdown procedures and exit the suit. He saluted as the pilot alighted on the ground, riding the line that dangled from the cockpit.

"Welcome back, sir," greeted the tech to Titans Captain Garrett Sajer, who blew past him as though he was not even there and then tossed his flight helmet over his shoulder without so much as a backwards glance. The tech caught it and stared after the Titan officer, who pulled off his gloves as he walked towards the TOC tent and not towards Palaccio's Plans tent, where the battalion CO had his quarters attached.

-----------------------

"What the---? Sarge!" suddenly spoke the once-dormant sonophone tech, getting the attention of an equally-bored NCO.

"What, Caldwell? What?" The sergeant had been dealing with this all night. "You hear another goddamn splash?"

Caldwell, one ear uncovered by a headphone speaker to allow him to hear the world around himself as well as what the sonar probe transmitted, nodded. "Big one this time, Sarge."

"You said that last time, and the time before that. It's the fucking kids tossing rocks."

Caldwell shook his head. "I could swear I heard mechanicals, and no rock sounds _that_ big unless they dropped a bridge into the water."

The sergeant sighed. "Caldwell, what do you _think_ it's more likely to be: a Zeek suit going into the drink because it slipped and fell, or some drunk who just drove off a bridge and took a swim, hm?"

Caldwell stared at the sergeant. "It might be a car, but---"

"There. It's a goddamn car. Those civilians are in that town having a big ol' party and getting fucked up in droves; the Zeeks probably are, too. I'd be surprised if we don't hear that shit all night long, and you already griped earlier about the noise in there jacking with the reception. Lemme make this easy for you: report gunfire, thruster noises, and screams. Everything else is party noise."

"I know you hate when I argue with you, Sarge. . ."

"Yep, I do hate that indeed. Every time you argue, some shitbag officer shows up and makes himself at home."

". . .but I swear there was something else in all that sound."

The sergeant rolled his eyes heavenward. "Dare I have to ask? What'd you _hear_, Caldwell?"

"Just before the splash, I heard. . .well, I heard something. . ."

"And that 'something' was. . .?"

Caldwell at least had the sense to look abashed. "I---I dunno, Sarge. It was, like. . .fuck it, I don't know what the hell it was. It's like I know I've heard it before, but I can't remember what!"

The sergeant pinched his eyes over the bridge of his nose. "Look at it this way, then. If anything was actually happening, don't you think Charger," he mentioned the high-speed guys from Echo Company with a snort that spoke volumes about his faith in their vigilance, "would call up Battalion and we'd be hearing about it on the squawk-box? The Zeeks ain't doing shit except partying and pissing us off. Forget the mystery sound and stick to the game plan, or you'll drive yourself nuts before the night's over. Get it?"

"Yeah, Sarge, I got it." Caldwell didn't sound convinced, but he shut up and clamped the other headphone onto his head. The sergeant settled back into his chair, giving the substandard equipment a wary glance before closing his eyes again. 54th TTAB did not have its full muster of Type-74s and their ultra-sensitive ground sonar gear; in fact, the only Type-74 the 54th possessed was eight kilometers away in Aerzen, so the line companies had to make do with man-portable rigs like the one they were using, and while they were technically as good as what was in the hovertrucks, the manpacks had a bad tendency to fail to filter out extraneous sounds, and were notoriously hard to isolate single audibles with.

No, the boys with the eyes were the primaries. Sonics just weren't going to be good enough to catch the Zeon, so it was really a matter of logic.

"Got _what_?" snapped a voice from the far side of the tent flap as it was pulled aside, and Captain Sajer blew in like a bad wind. The sergeant repressed a groan and shot a look at Caldwell, whose ears turned bright red even though he did not turn around.

This was going to be a long night indeed.

**Hameln, Niedersachsen, Central Europe**

**November 24, 0087**

The man called Thaddeus Duhamel was almost frantic. The sheer immensity of the crowd was an obstacle so daunting that there was no physical way to overcome it. His quarry was gone, escaped into the very masses that they plotted to become overlords of. Blind humanity giving succor to its greatest nightmare living amongst them; the irony was unmistakable, and often repeated throughout human history He wanted to scream and rant and lash out at the throng that pressed around him, overwhelming him in sounds and flesh and the stifling heat of humanity. Hands clutched at him, for myriad reasons, and he fought to continue his movement forward, his eyes desperate. His pleas went unheard in the din, and he began to lament his own weaknesses. The urge to fall to his knees was a growing desire in his belly. He cursed himself and refused the desire, doubling his efforts to _move_---

"Father?" spoke a voice so clearly that he thought he might have finally been found worthy of a visitation. Amazed, he stopped his progress and looked around for the source of the voice. A woman perhaps his age stood behind him, a cold-gnarled hand grasping his sleeve with determined force.

Remembering his role, Duhamel leaned closer, certain she was the one who had called him. "Yes, my child," he spoke loudly, straining to be heard over the roar of the crowd and the cacophony of the music, "how may I help you?" His other hand surreptitiously moved to the pocket where the pistol lay, hot and insistent.

She was on the verge of tears, speaking of sins and needing to confess, pleading with him to make time to hear her now, and Duhamel fought the urge to not break down himself. Her need was innocent, even expected, and Duhamel himself knew the weight that sins bore on the soul, but this was not the time and he was not a priest with the power to absolve her of her sins. His mind sought a way out of this obligation she presumed he held, but all that he could use would involve blowing his cover with the locals or attracting the attention of any of the tyrant heir's followers.

He made his decision. The enemy had eluded him, for now, and his mission was a long-term commitment. He had time enough. The tyrant heir was comfortable here, and would see no reason to leave as long as he and his ilk were granted safe haven.

"Come with me, my child" he told her, quieting her insistent pleas. He kept his voice calm, fatherly, though inside he raged. "I will hear your confession."

He led them towards an alleyway where some semblance of privacy could be found. He explained that his parish was some distance away, and that this was better for the both of them. She agreed, and he could see the gratefulness in her eyes as she looked at him, her face becoming beautiful in her desire to be cleansed. He hoped that when his mission was done, God would not look unfavorably at his granting her absolution when he was the least worthy to pronounce her soul forgiven.

The pistol in his coat still demanded to sing its own praises to Heaven. He hoped it would put in a good word for him as well.

-------------------------------

If escaping from the tent and back into the throng was supposed to be a relief, it was overestimated and of ill comfort. Reinhardt von Seydlitz exerted just enough effort to keep what was troubling him off his face as he devoted his faculties to finding the fastest way out of the crowd. He could scarcely think amidst the terrible roaring in his skull, the crawling sensation underneath his skin, and the trip-hammer thumping of his heart. The smells were all around him, pungent, invasive, and unrelenting in their intensity. He was being overwhelmed by them, consumed by them. Pheromones, sweat, blood, heat, all combining to drive him mad with the response to an internal imperative that threatened to drive him into an atavistic frenzy; escape was his only option, aside from grabbing the nearest human being and tearing them apart to stifle what was fast becoming a monster he was losing the strength to keep contained.

_Too long. We have been here too long!_ Acknowledging the issue did little to cool the inferno inside of him. Marking his pathway with what concentration he could spare to focus on it, he veered away from the tent and made for the edge of the square. He did his best to avoid the stares from the cattle he passed by, knowing that their base instincts, buried under the myriad layers of civilization, dulled senses, and social programming, would respond in kind with what was happening to him. Lust, pure, driving, and implacable; he could see it in their eyes, smell it from their flesh, and hear it reverberating from their bones. He wondered what he looked like to them. His imagination presented to his mind a being made of light, fiery and flowing, the heat from it infecting all around itself. It was nonsense, of course, but it made for an interesting allegory to his current condition, what with him throwing off pheromones at an almost uncontrollable rate towards anything with enough sensitivity to pay attention. Thankfully for all parties involved, von Seydlitz knew virtually every person in the crowd was mostly numb to it with the sheer amount of adrenaline already in their bloodstreams.

His Time was now. He had begun to feel the initial stirrings three days ago; it had escalated into the full-blown imperative yesterday morning. He had known it was coming, of course, as it had every year since puberty. The bio-scholars had played their cards too close to their vests with this generation of Elector-Princes; by design, they were both restricted from who they could mate with by a complex set of genetic parameters and rules of eugenics, yet they were also forced to mate once a year to ensure continued viability even if they had chosen celibacy. While he had never begrudged his birth or his advantages of conscious design, even von Seydlitz had to admit this was about the most coldhearted thing the bio-scholars had done to their creations, since the majority of humanity didn't survive mating with a lust-crazed Elector-Prince; even three generations of passive environmental genetic enhancement did not guarantee one of New Koenigsberg's commoners would come away from the experience walking under their own power.

The fear of a producing bastard race of half-breeds was kept under control by, conversely, a pre-designed _lack_ of control. The irony could have eaten worlds.

The crowd roared in time with the beat of the music, and he fought the urge to fall to his knees as the sound washed over him and through him. He was sweating uncontrollably now, even in the chill air; he was eminently thankful that von Mellenthin had not noticed that he simply had not stopped sweating after their duel ended, or that he had been sweating before it had begun. He did not know what steps von Mellenthin had taken in prison to stave off or slake the urge when his own Times had come, and he did not care to know or even devote enough attention to contemplate the possibilities. He himself had picked his share of the locals of Berchtesgaden throughout their time as refugees, and most years had managed to return them intact enough to avoid investigations of disappearance. One year, after the snows had set in, he had been desperate enough to use Weissdrake, optioning to use his status among their people to demand his submission; he had not regretted the action, though the Commander had been fit for nothing for nearly a month afterwards, but at least the man had survived as von Seydlitz had known he would. Still, it had been a hard, hard thing to accomplish, to maintain even that much control when every cell in his body had shrieked for him to release all inhibitions and---he could not ask that of Weissdrake again, certainly not now.

He shook his head, trying to shut that voice out. He was damned now by what amounted to a gene-driven sudden case of satyriasis. The imperative was becoming too strong. His choices were few and most of them intolerable at this stage in the operation. He could assault a mundane, most likely kill them in the process, and doom the whole unit to destruction when the town screamed that the _Ritus Ara_ had been violated and the Titans finished them off. He could lock himself in his _Gouf Custom_ for a week until the imperative finally wore itself down or he died, whichever came first, but they did not have a week, and the War would not take a pause just because the Elector-Prince of Brandenburg-Preussen was so sex-maddened his skeleton was clawing its way out of his skin.

He burst out of the crowd and almost cried aloud as the urge began to thankfully dissipate, retreating away from the forefront of his thoughts. He forced himself not to stagger into the nearest alleyway as his mind began to crawl back up from the depths of its imperative. There was still time left, he was still in some measure of control. Truth be told, he had been in fairly decent control until his brother decided to drop in on his temporary home and mend fences. While he was grateful that von Mellenthin had finally come to his senses about Nemesis and everything else, the restoration of their relationship had whelped very nasty offspring. He leaned back against the chill of the alley wall, and could not resist rapping the back of his throbbing skull against the cold masonry, in time with his too-fast heartbeat. A horrific crime it was, to be Elite and not even so much as be able to control the speed of one's heartbeat, all because he was being driven into a persistent state of arousal, and the one person on the whole of the planet that was physically safe to mate with was also the one person he could _never_ even dare so much as ask for the favor.

Von Seydlitz curled a fist and hammered it against the alley wall in frustration. He wished with an almost palpable fervency that von Mellenthin had not mentioned Vala's name. Von Seydlitz had not thought about her since the War began, though he remembered being tormented by her memory before Zeon began its blitz in 0079. He had only laid eyes on her once, and that was just before he had lost her. The ultimate Prize, the brightest star in the crown of the future Emperor, the truest essence of what Dietrich von Mellenthin had vied for on the Field of May; she was everything any of them would have massacred whole civilizations to possess, and only one of them could claim her. Vala von Bremen, the child of the Sixteenth House, and the only being in all of New Koenigsberg's history that could be considered to be the ideal NewType that the males of the ruling class strove to become as well. She and von Mellenthin were to have been wed once the War was done and Zeon had won; von Mellenthin had promised her Terra itself as her wedding gift. Von Seydlitz had nearly forgotten her throughout all these years, forgotten that he had helped secure her for his foster brother on the Field, forgotten that he had been the one to fall under von Mellenthin's hammer and fists; he could not deny that he had wanted her as much as the others had, but after he had lost she simply faded into the background, tucked away to become the future Empress as opposed to the beloved Prize he had failed to win.

Dietrich von Mellenthin had not faded into the background, and that was the second problem that von Seydlitz faced.

_Hell take you, Dietrich, for being who you are! And Hell take me for wanting you!_

This was madness, total and utter madness. _He_ was Master, his Will supreme; his physical body would obey his Will against its own! A thousand reasons that had been hammered into his belief system all his life hardened into a resolute wall of control. He pushed himself off of the wall and stood upright, dominant. This was the essence of what it was to rule, to fight the unending war over life's difficulties and master them, the true free spirit, beyond good and evil, to embrace joys and pain equally and conquer them both as he saw fit. He had to, because there was no way he could ever ask his foster brother to help him with this problem, and he never had, not since his Warding and the ritual that made him part of the von Mellenthin family as if he were born into it.

Von Seydlitz almost groaned out loud at his damnation; he could not touch a local, any of their soldiers, or the one person on the planet it was physically but not legally safe to mate with, to lock this monster back in its box for another year. The predicament was worthy of a cheap drama. He had wanted to scream every time von Mellenthin touched him; he had to have been insane to have initiated the touch in the cathedral during their duel. Mentioning Vala had come extremely close to pushing him over the edge, and had he not managed to wrestle his instincts back into control before the floodgates of his memory opened, he thought he might very well have attacked von Mellenthin and forced the issue right there in the church. . . and then he slammed his skull against the wall again to clear the pictures his imagination was generating, again and again until it was all a haze again.

He was beginning to wish he had taken that drink after all, and followed it ten times over as afterthoughts.

Brushing frost from his face, he stepped further into the alley and crossed to the street on the far end, walking away from the _Fest_, turning his thoughts to anything that would take his mind from trying to analyze his feelings about all that had occurred. He knew before he tried how impossible that was; this need throbbed behind his eyes, in his veins, and writhed under his flesh. Swallowing a mouthful of coppery-tasting saliva, he began to walk, organizing his thoughts to the matter that should be concerning him: Nemesis.

Von Mellenthin had contacted Vala somehow, knew what she was doing, and knew how he was going to get to her. Von Seydlitz could see an odd logic in the strategy, though he wondered how she was going to accomplish anything while under the constant care of the bio-scholars on New Koenigsberg, her awesome mental abilities kept in check with large doses of psychosedatives and near-seclusion. Von Mellenthin probably had a plan for all that, one whose scope was so long-range that von Seydlitz could not see it among the fog of uncertainty. His brother had always had that gift, to simply _know_ how things were going to work out, weeks, months, even years in advance, all by basing the chances on psychological patterns of predictability. Von Seydlitz envied that of him, and always had, but it had been recognizing that same ability that had made up his mind on the Field, when he could have just as easily betrayed von Mellenthin early on in the melee and changed the fate of Humanity. It could have been himself with Vala.

But it was not, and that was the way things were. Von Seydlitz could rail against it all he wished, it changed nothing. He had more important things to worry about than the what-might-have-beens of his life in the company of Dietrich von Mellenthin.

As he stepped out of the far side of the alleyway, a _whirr_ing noise and something zipping past his legs made him pause. About a dozen shrieking children ran past him, laughing as they chased whatever had just crossed in front of him. Von Seydlitz' eyes traced a thin coppery line on the ground in the direction of where the kids had run, and he glanced in the opposite direction to see a panting Antares de la Somme come skidding to a halt, with a remote control in his hand, laughing in joyous glee. Beside him was another child, spooling out wire, equally breathless.

Von Seydlitz took a moment to stare at his foster brother, face impassive even as his gray eyes caught the amber/hazel ones, and he watched the smile slide off of his brother's face as he recognized who it was. De la Somme had snow melting in his hair, which was already well-moistened, probably from a falling snowdrift from a rooftop or a snowball fight. His cheeks were cold-flushed, eyes brightened by the emotions he was feeling, yet fading out. He had not seen Antares for almost half a week, having sealed himself away in his rebellion against von Mellenthin's plan; when they had spoken, it had been through a locked door. Von Seydlitz knew what he had to be thinking; he could see the question in the Commander's eyes, along with what looked suspiciously like a plea.

He had meant to tell de la Somme before now, but had not had the chance. The other man still labored under the knowledge that the children were going to soon be the property of Haman Kahn. The streams of emotion running through de la Somme were almost tangible things in the silence, as impassive grey locked with liquid hazel.

They stared at each other for what seemed a good two minutes. Somewhere down the road, the sounds of the kids coming back echoed through the streets, even as they blended with the ambient echoes from the rave just a block away, dissonance amidst a steady beat. Von Seydlitz wanted to say something, but the words simply would not come. His tongue felt numb, unable to perform its function, but de la Somme looked as though he were going to fall apart from his anxiety. He had to do something, say something, to let his brother know everything was going to be all right after all. . .

Without conscious thought, von Seydlitz managed a tiny grin, just enough to be noticed, and he brought his right hand up to his chest and gave de la Somme a thumbs-up, hoping it would be enough to convey what he was unable to speak aloud at the moment.

De la Somme shoved the remote controller into the hands of the boy with the wire spool, ran to von Seydlitz with barely a skid on the icy cobblestones, and threw himself into his brother's arms.

"Reinhardt, baby," he sobbed, clutching at the taller man, "yer the best! The _best_!"

Von Seydlitz rubbed his brother's hair affectionately as the younger man wept in relief, and did his best not to let the monster in his blood loose.

--------------------------------

". . .and there, gentlemen, it is." Von Mellenthin drained the last of the _Stein_ and _plunk_ed the huge glass down on the wooden table, blue-green eyes never leaving the faces of those seated at the table with him. "Your patience and cooperation in this matter have been welcome and appreciated. In just a short while, I and my troops will be out of your town and the danger will pass you by."

He noted certain doubts emanating from the group, especially from the _Buergermeister_, which was to be expected. He fired off one of his million-dollar smiles, trying to disarm the tension. "I trust our agreement remains intact?"

"Yes, yes, of course," the Mayor was quick to reply. "We've made all the arrangements with six foster families willing to take them in. The city will take responsibility for the children once you're. . .gone."

Von Mellenthin caught the hesitation, and his eyes bored into the Mayor though his smile remained in place. "Bear in mind," he addressed the group despite his shark's fixation on the one in charge, "that if these children find their way into Federation hands courtesy of the Titans, I'll consider it breach of contract. There is no legal justification for giving these children to their makers, who stomped all over the Charter by designing NewTypes to be used as weapons. They held no respect for the wishes of this great nation or its people by creating these same prepubescent weapons in secret laboratories in the very heart of _Deutschland_, where no one would dare suspect them to stoop to such blatant subterfuge. Why should the children deserve that fate? Why not give them the chance to live normal lives, to be happy and free? Would any of us here ask any differently?"

A burst of raucous laughter from another table made the Hameln residents turn in reaction; von Mellenthin maintained his stare, as impassive to the distraction as the noise that swelled and ebbed around them all, waiting for the answer. He had to confess that for cattle, these people were made of stronger stuff than most. He remembered Paris, and the mobs that fled pell-mell before the vanguard of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ Division; he could remember the panic, the chaos, the screams as the fighting moved into the city. Countless casualties, accidents, the traffic snarls making the roads nigh impassible to anything not on legs or equipped with boosters, buildings burning from heavy caliber weapons' misses or deliberate shots for clearance, the terror of the city a palpable thing that brave and cowardly alike had fled screaming from when their vaunted Federation defenders had crumpled under the brutality of his strategy of systematic armored overwhelm and his mobile suits. Hameln faced the same dangers now and yet few had even attempted to leave. They loved their city too much to abandon it even under the threat of annihilation; the crowd around him affirmed it.

The Mayor turned back to face him. "We," he gestured towards the others, all City Council members, "concur completely with your assessment, General, but what about the Titans? If they catch even the slightest clue that we are harboring these children, they'll execute all of us!"

"Then that's something _else_ you should thank the Federation for!" snapped von Mellenthin, sensing that being ingratiating was not going to bolster the locals' courage for this any; they were willing to face the fires of a battle, but not of black-uniformed death squads in their homes. He leaned forward until his elbows rested on the table. "I admit this puts you all in a predicament. You're damned if the Federation's pet murderers find out about our deal, because they'll spend a day or two hanging your entire population from bridges by their necks. You're also damned if they find out and then lose to me and my men, because _I_ will slaughter you like minks for betraying my trust. You've got about thirty-three percent of a chance to come out of this whole debacle unscathed, _meine Freunde_, so tread carefully once we're gone." Von Mellenthin's smile morphed into something menacing. "We can always come back, after all, given a strong enough reason. If you doubt my word, it's easy to rectify: find someone from Kassel and ask them."

The Mayor swallowed, and it seemed like the noise around them actually dimmed. "I—"

Von Mellenthin waved a hand though the air, as though brushing it all away. "Ah, never mind me; we're nearly done with this place. Look," he smiled again, all friendly, "as occupations go, Hameln has been a true center of hospitality towards me and my soldiers, and we've repaid you by not sacking this place and running roughshod all over your town. I think we've come to an excellent working relationship and I would _hate_," he glanced over at Ogun, who gave a brief nod and walked out of the tent, "to spoil that with threats, innuendoes, and worst-case scenarios. Better that we make our departure as quietly as possible and with no setbacks, do we agree?"

The Mayor was sweating, not a surprise considering how warm it was in the tent compared to outside. Von Mellenthin answered for him. "Of course you do, and it's a good decision. I have my people bringing the children to the _Rathaus_ as per the agreement. In the next couple of hours, this will all be a fairy tale you can tell your grandchildren. In the meantime, enjoy your _Fest_. Here in a few minutes or so, it will be time for the Remembrance." The Zeon General's face lit up with anticipation. "Would there be any objection to me speaking Uhland's poem this year?"

"Well," sputtered the Mayor, "no, General, I have no objection to that. You've certainly earned the right. You know the words?"

Von Mellenthin's grin grew wider. "Does not every German?"

-------------------------------

"So I was digging the rave and all, even though all that thump-thump-thump shit gives me a headache after a while, you know, and then that last disc jockey played this _jacked up_ remix of Tesla's 'Love Will Find A Way', and I just had to get the hell away from the whole thing, 'cause I wasn't ever gonna find a way to love _that_." De la Somme sighed heavily, as if it had pained him. "So I figured if I went to bed before 'the Move', I'd miss my cue. . ."

Von Seydlitz continued, knowing where this was going. ". . .and you decided to entertain yourself and force yourself to stay awake. . ."

The other pilot nodded and grinned. ". . .and so here I am, out here in the cold and wet, hangin' with kids and playin' with my Peeper." He giggled at the obscenity of the innuendo, and then grunted softly as his hands manipulated the controls. "He really caved just like that? Who'd have thunk it?"

"It was a little more complicated than that, Antares," replied von Seydlitz, boot scuffing a wad of snow back into powder as they strolled, the local kids ahead of them with the Peeper remote car that de la Somme was ardently manipulating to keep away from their grasping hands. He was doing a very good job of it.

"Yeah, I bet. C'mon, spill it, bro. . .did Deet cry?"

"No."

"Did you?"

Von Seydlitz shot him a vile look. "No," the word was laced with scorn.

De la Somme grinned a bit wider. "'S too bad. I'd have really been pissed I missed your jam session _and_ both of you weepin' like little bitches at the same time."

"You are one to talk about weeping," reminded von Seydlitz, chiding him, "you are the penultimate crybaby."

"Hey, I ain't scared to share," retorted de la Somme as he nudged the child who carried the spool of copper wire that linked the controller to the Peeper. "C'mon, let's go over there and catch up before we get too far from everything." He turned his attention back to von Seydlitz and smiled wide. "I'm glad things are gonna go our way this time. Do the kids know?"

"By now, certainly." Von Seydlitz felt a dizzy wave hit him, and he managed to keep his feet by surreptitiously leaning on a cold rail. "Be sure you take into account the time you will require to collect your newest pet before you make your move."

"Erik's not a pet, Reinhardt," de la Somme shot back. Then, he frowned. "You okay? You look like a pair of Vlady's underwear."

Von Seydlitz prayed silently he was not as obvious as he feared he was. "I am fine. Just tired and ready to leave this place behind us."

De la Somme shook his head, letting still-frozen flakes of snow fall out of his hair. A few more deft maneuvers kept the kids away from the Peeper, one of them slipping and falling face-first into a snowdrift, to the delight of the others. "Don't bullshit me, Reinhardt. Are you sick?" The younger man put the controller back in the hands of his assistant and walked over to von Seydlitz. "You don't _get_ sick. . ."

"I _get_ sick; I merely refuse to show it off just to reap cheap sympathies like what you are doing right now." The Colonel stared back, seeing worry on de la Somme's face. Much shorter than von Seydlitz was, the diminutive ace had to get very close to peer up at him, much less reach up to touch him. Von Seydlitz allowed the contact, if only to reassure Antares that he was not running a fever.

Except that de la Somme's hand never reached his forehead. With a gasp, de la Somme took a step back. "Aw, _shit_, Reinhardt. . .it's _that_, ain't it?" He stomped his foot in the snow and clapped his hands on his thighs. "Dammit, dammit, dammit, I _forgot_! I never forget that kind of thing! It's like forgetting someone's birthday---"

"Or your un-birthday. . ." interjected von Seydlitz, trying in vain to head off the rant train at the station.

"---and I really hate that since it's so friggin' callous and shit, and everyone needs a day like that but you and Deet and the other guys always had those _other_ days too and I made it a point to remember them all just in case you got frisky and I had to shoot you with a tranq dart or _something_ and ---"

"_Gott im Himmel_, shut UP, Antares!" barked von Seydlitz, cutting de la Somme's rant off before it turned into a serious steamroller. "I am _fine_. It is not much longer now before we will be in a position to do something about it, but now is not the time."

De la Somme was ticking numbers off on his fingers. "You're late. . .couple days, at least. How're you gonna handle this, Reinhardt? Lotion and tissues?"

"I am so glad you find this amusing." The glare von Seydlitz wore could have thawed several city blocks.

"Ooo, I know!" De la Somme was practically alight with glee at the chance to pick on his foster brother, and he stuck a finger into a partially-closed fist and made poking gestures through the hole with it, "you can take it out of Deet in trade!"

Von Seydlitz had to grin a little at that picture. "Just before he takes it back in flesh. You are sick for even suggesting it." _Never mind that I had already considered that_.

De la Somme stopped stomping around and grew a little graver. "How's. . .how's this work if you, you know, _don't_. . .?"

The answer was given in the form of a shrug before von Seydlitz actually spoke. "I am not sure. This has never happened before to any of us that I am aware of. The timing for this is. . .very bad."

"No shit."

"Listen," said von Seydlitz, leaning forward with his hands placed just above his knees, still propped on the railing, "this is between you and I and no others. Even Dietrich does not know, and I do not want him to. He will make a decision that we will all regret if he finds out that my Time is upon me."

He saw de la Somme's eyes widen, and a look of worry and desperation flit across them. Von Seydlitz's hand lashed out, fast as lightning, but de la Somme's reflexes were good enough that he managed to jerk away from the first grasp, and von Seydlitz had to grab at him twice to catch hold. He tugged the other pilot closer, gently but inexorably firmly.

"Please, no! No sniffing!" squawked de la Somme cautiously, knowing from experience that now that he was being held it was virtually impossible to fight his way free again.

Von Seydlitz held his stare with his own as strongly as he held de la Somme's arm. "This is my problem, no one else's. If Dietrich finds out, he will force this town to give someone up to me, and the chances of them surviving it once I give in to it are not good. He will risk everything we have done to save me because he will feel obligated. We cannot afford it, Antares!"

De la Somme was trembling; von Seydlitz could feel the shivers through the hold he had on de la Somme. "He'll pay it, Reinhardt! You know he will! He can't afford to lose _you_ more, and he knows it, or he'd never have gone to fix shit with you!"

Von Seydlitz released his brother's arm. "I know that, but Nemesis is worth so much more."

De la Somme shook his head angrily even as he stepped away. "That's a bunch of _Geschwalle_ and you fucking know it. You're the last one of his kind of people, Reinhardt, just you two; the others're dead! He'll make a friggin' exception, I know he will!"

"If we fail we all die, Elite or no. We owe it to both you and Weissdrake to get you home, Antares. It is our duty to fulfill that obligation, and it is one I think more pressing than whether or not I survive my Time. My level of control is tenuous, true, but it is still within my control. While it is, I am still mission capable and intend to remain that way. Respect my wish, Antares," von Seydlitz's face was grave as a tomb, "do not tell Dietrich."

One of the local children ran up with the Peeper vehicle, and de la Somme reached out for it, taking it from the smaller hands. The others were on their way back, racing carefully over the slippery ice on the cobblestones. He rested his gaze back on von Seydlitz. "It's all shit if you die, Reinhardt. We got an obligation too, you know. You get outta control on us even once, I'm 'fessing up to Deet and we'll just see what comes out of it."

Von Seydlitz's level stare became one of not-so-subtle warning. "Make it good, Antares, I know you cannot resist a parting shot."

De la Somme dropped the Peeper and the controller into the snow at his feet abruptly, eyes full of anger. "Okay, how's this for one: I know you're in love with him, you've been in love with him for years, and he doesn't know it and you'd rather die than admit it to him even if it'd save your life."

Von Seydlitz raised an eyebrow. "Go on."

"You can't square the courage to admit it with the fear you have of doin' it because not only is it illegal as all hell, it's also somethin' he can exploit out of you whenever he'd damn well feel like it. You're so scared of losing all your power to him by being in love with him that you'd rather just be dead. And you hate him for that, tell me I'm lyin'! Dammit, Reinhardt," the little man sighed and tilted his head back to look at the sky, "you've gone and fucked things up with gusto this time around."

Von Seydlitz smiled a tiny little smile, the one he reserved only for his brothers. His voice dared not waver: "And how did you come to this conclusion? Tarot cards? Ouija board? Magic Eight-Ball?"

"'Signs point to yes'," chuckled de la Somme. "I dunno. Just thought it sounded good. Am I close? You're screwed if I am, because that means you've spent your whole life cutting yourself apart for a concept you don't even believe in. Besides, he kinda did sic his dog on you when you first met and you stuck around anyway; if that ain't love, what is?"

Von Seydlitz tried not to make it sound grim, and knew he failed. There was no sense in trying to deny it now. "I have always known it was impossible, Antares. Dietrich's loves are very specific and focus-consuming. There would never have been room for. . .another. . .in his priorities. He loves power, loves the War, loves his people, loves Vala," he heard de la Somme's sudden intake of breath and wondered if that was how he had sounded in the cathedral, "and he loves the _Ordnung_ most of all." The smile dropped off of his face slightly. "Ironic, is it not, to be one of fifteen unique beings in the universe, bred for rule and power, and spending a lifetime and a war in the purest faith is not enough to make you worthy in the eyes of the only person you were ever trying to prove that worth to."

He looked at his foster brother's horror-stricken face, and he did not know why the words would not stop but they spilled off his tongue no matter how loud his subconscious shrieked that he was displaying weakness before a subordinate. "I will not force him to choose between me or the _Ordnung_, not that I have a shadow of a doubt as to how he would choose. Both ways, he loses something of himself in the decision, and I love him too much to allow him the luxury of self-flagellation. He may not admit it, but he needs support sometimes, so long as it is from the shadows. So I remain Elite, and his friend, and do what I can to ensure that he is happy and comes into his kingdom intact. It would have had to end in any event, once we had both married to continue our lines."

"And what're you getting out of this?" accused de la Somme. "What do _you_ love? When do _you_ get to be happy? Weepin' Jesus, Reinhardt! You're sacrificing your entire life to make sure someone else is all hunky-dory, and _this_ is the thanks you get? Why? Because you _owe_ him? Because some rulebook says you should just give up your dreams to make certain someone else achieves some kinda 'higher ideal'? Quit being a sissy and tell him you love him, stupid! Fuck the _Ordnung_, all you _need_ is love!"

"Is that what you told him when you confessed to being married and having spawned?"

De la Somme's jaw dropped. "I. . ."

". . .have not told him yet," concluded von Seydlitz matter-of-factly. "Mind the hypocrisy, Antares. It is no more becoming on you than it is me, and you have your own prices to pay for happiness. The _Ordnung_ damns you for what you have done as much as it has damned me for what I wish could be done, so discretion is probably in your best interest as well." He gestured with a hand, and his face grew colder than the atmosphere. "This conversation is terminated. Consider the matter classified and speak of it to no one. Dismissed, _Kommandant_."

Knowing there was no more to be said once von Seydlitz got into that mode, de la Somme waved the kids back the way they came with his free hand, shot him a wan little smile that was more sadness than anything else, picked up the Peeper and its equipment, and then the whole group of them went walking back down the street, leaving von Seydlitz to his own thoughts.

He did not linger long. Time was ticking away, and his movement was scheduled in less than two hours' time. He would have to collect von Mellenthin from the revelry and turn the children over to Hameln before then, so it was best he do so now while he was in enough control to hide the state he was in. He pushed himself off of the railing and to his feet smoothly, brushed off his uniform top, and walked back towards the _Fest_, taking a different alleyway than the one he had left from.

Gingerly evading obstacles strewn throughout it, as well as maintaining a footing on the icy cobblestones, he saw a hunched shape occupying most of the narrow corridor ahead of him. His ears picked up hushed voices, two distinct ones, even through the noise that was cascading over the stone around him. He presumed they were either drunk or making out, as they were very close to each other, and rather than intrude he decided to simply evade them and move on. As he passed, his hip brushed against one of the shapes, his momentum moving the person aside several inches. He did not ask for pardon or apologize; he was still who he was, and not prone to abasing himself to cattle with no regard for traffic flow.

--------------------------------------

Duhamel felt the bump from behind as he was delivering the final blessing over the woman, who had spent the last thirty minutes detailing a list of sins so vast he was appalled. The push made him stumble a bit, and he had to grasp at the woman to steady himself, his other hand planting against the wall of the alleyway, crossing over her shoulder and moving his face dangerously close to hers. He shot a glare at the back of the man who had pushed him and his heart almost seized as he recognized the uniform and the stride. _The tyrant heir's brother! Lord of Hosts, I've not yet failed You!_ He apologized and finished the blessing and forgiveness hastily, knowing that if she had been Opus Dei she would have probably been hobbled for some of her sins as penance. Then again, he mused as they left the alley and she melted back into the crowd, gratitude apparent on her face, it was not as though he had actually absolved her or anything; God would still punish her in His due course. She had known better and sinned anyway, then had the temerity to take her time to beg forgiveness. Just like the tyrant heir, she too would reap what she sowed; the Lord would take His time forgiving her, as she had taken hers to ask, and her soul would be steeped in sin that much longer. But for Duhamel, his quarry was there, ahead of him, the crowd slowing him as much as it slowed Duhamel's pursuit.

Surely this was a blessing, to have found one of his targets after von Mellenthin had eluded him in the rave. The Lord led all His flock back into His fold, but He also led His shepherds to those that were lost. The pistol's weight was miniscule now; Duhamel had his target, one that would lead him to the ultimate evil to be extinguished. He was not gentle with the crowd this time, he could not afford to be and keep up with von Seydlitz. It was imperative that his eyes remain fixed on the Zeon uniform ahead of himself. The locals he shoved past were not particularly happy at his rudeness, but they also excused him when they saw the collar around his neck. He smiled in spite of everything, amazed how one blessing could negate the discomfiture he had felt at the possibility of failure.

--------------------------------

The crowd was cheering as the _Buergermeister_ took the stage, accepting a hand microphone from the DJ, who took his leave and joined the audience below. Von Mellenthin waited at the bottom of the stairs, content to allow the Mayor his say before he was summoned to perform the reading.

The Mayor, smiling widely, waved the raucous crowd to silence, though it took several minutes to finally quiet the mob. In spite of the time, there were still several thousand citizens and tourists in the square and in the _Bier_ tent. His speech was short and simple, an improvisation almost, thanking both the people of Hameln and those from elsewhere for attending their _Fest_, commending them for their bravery and fortitude during the current time of crisis and the siege, and that those being remembered today would have been proud of them all, as he was. A fairly neutral cut-and-dry civic speech, similar to ones probably made in years past.

_Very well,_ mused von Mellenthin, _I will keep it simple as well, then._ The Mayor introduced him, and he ascended the stage to the sound of absolute silence, accepting the microphone from the Mayor's trembling hand as the man scurried off-stage much faster than he had come to it.

Von Mellenthin's keen eyes swept across the sea of faces. "Citizens of Hameln, Saxons all, hear me." The microphone removed any need to raise his voice beyond normal modulation. "Hearken to the words I am about to speak in Remembrance of those who have crossed beyond this place; soldiers, veterans, warriors of conflicts past, present, and future. They met their Fates braving strife, battle, and hatred with the élan, bravery, and valor of those who feared no Fate, and it is their sacrifices that have allowed you to live as you do today, to speak the language of your forefathers, to design your own legacies, and to seek the betterment of yourselves and those who will come after you as you see fit. They died with the blood roaring in their ears, the war cries of their ancestors on their tongues, and with courage singing in their hearts. We gather here today to affirm that we are thankful such gallantry lives on, though the gallant themselves have fallen."

He caught von Seydlitz moving through the crowd, and their eyes met. He gestured with his free hand for the Colonel to join him on stage, and he grinned wolfishly as he continued: "As has been done since the inception of _Volkstrauertag_ back in the Twentieth century, I read now from Ludwig Uhland's pen and mind, scribed in 1809 of the old calendar, '_Der gute Kamerad_.'"

Hundreds of voices rose to the night in a cheer, and people clamored for drinks to lift and lighters to hold up like candles for memory of someone lost recently or further in the past. Von Mellenthin nodded as von Seydlitz came up the stairs and stood at the edge of the stage. This was as much for them as it was for anyone else, and the General would have had no one else beside him for this reading. They were, after all, the last two of the Elite, and German, and had their own to Remember.

-----------------------------------------

Duhamel's eyes were wide and his attention rapt as his ultimate target stood on stage, in the open, the perfect setting for a murder. Von Seydlitz had led him straight to his salvation, the fulfillment of his promise to Opus Dei and the Almighty. It was time, finally, for Thaddeus Duhamel to set himself free of the chains that had bound his soul since birth. He would be baptized and cleansed in the twisted and warped blood of Dietrich von Mellenthin, who had succumbed to the hubris of the evil and now stood unprotected before the wrath of the Lord.

His hand reached into his coat and grasped the pistol's grip. His lips began to move, speaking in conversational volume, words the Priest had taught him and made him memorize with every crack of the lash. The Psalm spilled from his tongue as if born of it: "'Break the teeth in their mouths, O God; tear out, O Lord, the fangs of the lions!'"

-------------------------------------

Von Seydlitz smiled a tiny smile back at his brother as the din of the crowd finally died off, and glasses, mugs, and flickers of flame from hundreds and hundreds of lighters illuminated the chill air of the square. Von Mellenthin's voice was even, emotive, and flowed across the consciousness like warm water, the baritone perfect even if the accent was innately Hessian. Von Seydlitz knew the _Lied_ of Uhland as well, and mouthed it in time with von Mellenthin, adding volume when literally thousands of other voices joined in to speak with them.

"'_Ich hatt' einen Kameraden, _

_Einen bessern findst du nit. _

_Die Trommel schlug zum Streite, _

_Er ging an meiner Seite _

_In gleichem Schritt und Tritt._'"

--------------------------------------

Duhamel was not speaking Uhland's poem with the crowd. He walked a different path, the road less traveled, and so he rendered his own _Volkstrauertag_ Remembrance, one that would add Uhland's reader to the _Fest_'s purpose as opposed to him being just another attendee.

The Psalm continued, and the pistol drew from the jacket with the smoothness of justice well earned: "'Let them vanish like water that flows away; when they draw the bow, let their arrows be blunted. Like a slug melting away as it moves along, like a stillborn child, may they not see the sun.'"

--------------------------------------

Though his own heritage was as muddied and lost as the history to which it had been consigned by the accident that had orphaned him, Antares de la Somme was more than familiar with Uhland's poem. Decades of living with Germans had left indelible footprints in his psyche, and like Weissdrake, he was also a New Koenigsberger and had the right of citizenship to honor the dead for _Volkstrauertag_. However, he was also more than acquainted with his own level of emotional control during ceremonies like these that he knew he would break down without a distraction. The Peeper was also in attendance, and he spoke the words as he worked its controls, dodging and weaving the little remote vehicle through the throng, thinking more about it than the meaning behind the words, which he knew would be depressing.

"'_Eine Kugel kam geflogen: _

_Gilt's mir oder gilt es dir? _

_Ihn hat es weggerissen, _

_Er liegt vor meinen Füßen _

_Als wär's ein Stück von mir._'"

-----------------------------------

The pistol was fully exposed now, and Duhamel raised it to eye-level, carefully sighting down the chromed barrel at the stage and trying to steady his hand to make each shot count; he had been warned that one bullet may not be enough. He was practically yelling the Psalms now, but his one voice would never be heard over the voices of the crowd, and as he was nearly in the front row, no one except those to his sides would notice that he was not bearing a lighter or a drink in a toast to the dead.

"'The righteous will be glad when they bathe their feet in the blood of the wicked!'"

------------------------------------

The sound of the crowd swept over von Mellenthin, and his smile was ear-to-ear. To harness this energy, this harmony of thousands of people into a single purpose! The possibilities were endless. The universe itself would be conquered with the same single-mindedness as was being evidenced right here in this town square on a single world. He longed for it desperately, the union of Space and Earth and all its peoples, bent towards claiming the birthright of all Humanity, led and bred to Power by those entrusted with it. Then, finally, all the dead they remembered and their efforts would finally be vindicated, their sacrifices reaping the fruit from the seeds their deaths sowed. He spread his arms wide before the crowd, disdaining the microphone for the final stanza, and like the crowd, he chose to shout the last of Uhland's lines:

"'_Will mir die Hand noch reichen,_

_Derweil ich eben lad'. _

_"Kann dir die Hand nicht geben, _

_Bleib du im ew'gen Leben, _

_Mein guter Kamerad!"_'"

------------------------------------------

The tyrant heir stretched his arms wide, as though he were a false god seeking the supplications of the masses before him, and Duhamel knew that his chance had come. The pistol came level, held in an outstretched hand like the accusing finger of God Himself, his eyes on the sight picture that von Mellenthin stood naked for judgment within. The false priest smiled, and he knew his face was that of a man who had finally found release from a lifetime of pain and burden of sin. His finger began to squeeze, and he wanted it to be done with but yet never end, to remain here in a state of perfect harmony with God's will, doing the Lord's good work in excising this cancer of Man's pride from the world, proving that Man was worth redemption and the sacrifice of the Cross with this rejection of the Devil's newest evil plaything. The finger paused, trembling.

And something bumped into Duhamel's shoe, just before the final pound of pressure could be added to finish the action.

Taken aback by the sudden contact, Duhamel's head swiveled to see what had hit him, and his mouth gaped at the sight of a remote-controlled toy. A short man muscled through the cheering crowd, a spool of wire in one hand and a controller in the other.

"Hey, guy, sorry 'bout that. Been a bitch tryin' to control this thing and the wire at the same time, but I lost my helpers when I came over here and I gotta do the whole thing myself and with the crowd and all it's tough seeing where this sucker goes all the time and---whoa, I'm real sorry, Father, didn't see the collar there for a sec, though I admit I've kinda always wanted to run down a Catholic priest with a car this wasn't exactly what I had in mind, you know? I'm Lutheran-ish myself, so you can understand, can't you, or do I gotta go to Confession first? Don't think I gotta, though, 'cuz if God had a beef with it I'd already know. . ." poured out of the little man in the Zeon uniform's mouth, and with some effort Duhamel tore his eyes away from the soldier and the remote car and back to his target.

Von Mellenthin had closed his arms, but still stood in the pistol's sight, head turned to look at von Seydlitz, who still stood off-stage but was being beckoned on by his grinning General. . .

"---holy _shit_, Padre, that's a---!" exclaimed the Zeon beside him, and Duhamel found his strength again. He had to act now before the soldier stopped him. His eye narrowed and there was only von Mellenthin, awesome and vile.

"_Everything with God,_" the assassin called Duhamel cried aloud, his voice carrying through the crowd like the trumpets of the angels, "_and nothing without Him!_"

The pistol sang its chorus five times in unbroken succession; each pull of the trigger was like being born again.

**Titans Line (West), Niedersachsen, Central Europe**

**November 24, 0087**

"_SHIT!_" Caldwell jerked upright in his seat as though he had been shocked, hands clapping to the sides of his headphones, pressing them closer to his ears. The other two men in the tent stopped glaring at each other and turned their attention to the sonar tech.

"Well, dammit?" snapped Sajer in annoyance. "What's the issue?"

The sergeant rolled his eyes. "He can't hear you, sir, not with the 'phones on. Give him a second and he'll tell us."

Sajer was having none of that. He walked over and whacked Caldwell on the back of the head with a hand. "Hey, idiot! What's the goddamn fuss about?"

Caldwell popped one of his ears free from the headphones, face red and angry. "Gunfire, sir! Five shots, then a lot of screaming from the crowd! Small-arms caliber, negative return fire! Center of the town!"

Sajer's hand clenched on Caldwell's uniform neck, the fabric tightening. "So help me if you're crying 'wolf' on this, I'll fucking crush you like a peanut shell!"

Caldwell's face turned red, but he did not back down. "If you think you can do this better than I can, be my guest, but I heard gunshots coming from Hameln whether you do anything about it or not! Now get the hell off me, sir!"

Giving a satisfied grunt of approval, Sajer let Caldwell go and was out the door faster than he had come in. The sergeant flung himself at the secure landline to Aerzen, his other hand reaching for the handset for the Battalion FM radio net. When the RTO on the other end of the line picked up in Aerzen, he had to yell to be heard over the roar of Sajer's _Barzam_ as it launched itself towards Hameln.

**Hameln, Niedersachsen, Central Europe**

**November 24, 0087**

There was a heartbeat's worth of time and silence that seemed to last an eternity, as the echo of the final shot petered out, and the crowd held its collective breath for that split second.

The priest's arm was still outstretched, the gleaming chrome of the ancient .45 caliber Luger shining like a beacon in the midst of the crowd, colors from the lights around the square glinting dully off of its body as the last of the shell casings fell to the cobblestones, making a brassy tinkle of sound audible in the great hush for yards around. The smoke from the shots trickled from the barrel into the cold air, vanishing in wisps. Beside the gunman, the vaunted reflexes of Antares de la Somme had failed to kick in, and he stood stock-still, staring with his eyes agog and his mouth open in shock at the smoking weapon in the priest's unwavering grip. The crowd had instinctively backed away from Duhamel and the gun, leaving a large empty space around the two even as they stared, waiting for what would come next though instincts screamed to break and run for safety and away from this man who had just shot at the Zeon on the stage.

Reinhardt von Seydlitz's hand slowly reached up and touched the warmth that splattered his frost-numbed face. Dully, he lifted his fingers from the copper-scented liquid and looked at the redness on the tips. His mind, trained since birth to process data and respond faster than a normal human's, instead fixated on trying to divine the logic as to why there was blood on his face, his senses unable to detect any sign of impact or damage on his person. _It is not mine. It cannot be mine. Then who---?_ As if in a fugue, his eyes turned to Dietrich von Mellenthin, who leaned heavily on the DJ's turntable, the microphone hanging limply from his left hand before falling to the ground with a _thump_ and an electronic whine of feedback, forgotten.

Blood soaked von Mellenthin's uniform top's left sleeve, drenched the hand that was clamped on top of the left shoulder; it turned his blond hair red, and ran down his face in thin streams that followed contours and structure down to the proud chin to drip steadily. It was a puddle on the ground that the microphone came to rest in. His eyes were locked on the man in the crowd who had shot him, green-blue orbs that projected death from within their depths towards that which had dared to wound him. His face was a demon's mask, streaked with rivulets of red and a kaleidoscope of shadows and lights, twisted and monstrous, looking anything but human but was very much alive.

And the General opened his mouth, wider and wider until it seemed to unhinge itself, and _roared_ his rage and pain to every ear in Hameln.

**Aerzen, Niedersachsen, Central Europe**

**November 24, 0087**

Titans Major Golan Tizard strode downstairs into his TOC area, followed by Kenneth Holt, his aide-de-camp, just in time to get his sitrep practically hand-delivered to him both by his on-shift battle captain, Volkyr, and by the static-laced screeching on the 2nd Battalion internal net that was monitored here at Brigade. He paid more attention to the radio than he did Captain Volkyr, whose grasp of the situation was not apt enough to have fully processed the information he needed.

"Crusader Main, this is Saber Main, say again last transmission," prompted the RTO at the desk.

"_Saber Main, this is Crusader Main, I say again: reporting audibles on small arms fire inside Hameln center, source unknown, target unknown, casualties unknown. Crusader has all personnel and equipment accounted for. Saber Five Omega is-----_" The transmission was interrupted by a static wash, then solidified again. "_----ader One has ordered all units to begin preparations for movement into Hameln._"

Tizard pushed past Volkyr, who had stopped speaking to also listen, and grabbed the handset from the RTO. "Crusader Main, this is Saber One. Tell Crusader One his movement is countermanded. I say again, negative on movement into Hameln. He is to hold position and await my arrival on station. Put Saber Five Omega on this net."

"_Saber One, Crusader Main, unable to establish contact with Saber Five Omega. He is not monitoring battalion net._"

Tizard felt heat begin to build behind his eyes. "Crusader Main, what is the location of Saber Five Omega?"

There was a slight pause that confirmed all of Tizard's worst suspicions. Before the answer even came across the net, he gestured towards Holt, who nodded acknowledgement and left the TOC in a hurry. The radio broke squelch. "_Saber One, Saber Five Omega is already en route to Hameln with his mobile suit._"

The room grew deathly still, as every breath in the TOC caught, waiting for Tizard's reaction. The Major nodded to himself once, and then keyed the net. "This is Saber One, acknowledged. I will handle this matter myself when I arrive on site. Saber One, out." He turned his frost-frigid stare on Volkyr, and passed the handset back to the RTO. "Continue monitoring the situation, but under no circumstance send any more mobile suits towards Hameln, do you understand? This situation is volatile at best, but still within the realm of control."

"Understood, sir," replied Volkyr.

"And try and get Sajer on the line. He might still be monitoring Brigade net. If you manage, make him cease his invasion of Hameln. You probably won't reach him, but try anyway. I'm on my way to Palaccio's command post. Put the Brigade on elevated alert status, but hold position under any and all circumstances. Make them understand, especially Armistead." Tizard smiled thinly, then spun on a booted heel and left the TOC. Outside, his _Marasai_ was already warmed up and activated, Holt having taken care of the pre-flight checks for him. A pair of GM IIs were also standing, a personal guard force for the Brigade CO.

Holt lowered himself down to the ground on the pilot's line and handed Tizard his helmet. "Good luck, sir!" he called out to his boss over the whine of the three mobile suits. Tizard clapped a gloved hand on Holt's shoulder as his thanks and rode the line up to the cockpit, strapping himself in and closing the hatch against the chill outside.

With a beckon towards the GM IIs, the _Marasai_ launched itself on a trail of fire, its escorts following behind.

**Hameln, Niedersachsen, Central Europe**

**November 24, 0087**

There was a scream from somewhere in the crowd as von Mellenthin's furious bestial howl swept over the assembled townspeople, keening through the alleys and through the whole square like a banshee's wail. The pandemonium did not set in until the _Dom Tropen_ rounded the corner, as though investigating what all the yelling was about. Once the suit's mono-eye swept the crowd, panic descended and the real screaming began.

Before Duhamel could squeeze the trigger again, de la Somme became a blur of motion. A knife flashed from out of a sleeve and the ace slashed upward, cutting Duhamel's arm deeply. The fake priest recoiled in pain but managed to swipe at de la Somme with the pistol, which he managed to maintain a grip on in spite of the wound. The much-younger Zeon pilot ducked under the swipe and cartwheeled onto his outstretched hands, the Peeper's controller and the knife dropped without any further regard. A booted foot lashed out and kicked Duhamel in the side of the head, and the Opus Dei assassin staggered back as de la Somme finished the cartwheel and righted himself, knife back in his hand as he had picked it up in the midst of his maneuver.

Duhamel melted into the panicking crowd, using them as cover, gun aimed at his attacker until he vanished into the press of bodies. De la Somme, caught off guard when the would-be killer did not counterattack, recovered and threw himself after him, fighting his way through the crowd, which was emptying from the center in the traditional amoeba-like mass that panic ensued, no matter who got crushed in their paths.

--------------------------------------

Von Mellenthin was in pain, there was no doubt about that. All five shots had hit him in some fashion. One was in his shoulder, a solid hit that felt like someone had inserted a hot coal beneath his skin. Two were primarily flesh wounds, and already the blood was clotting, the wounds sealing themselves with accelerated efficiency. The other two were the deepest, and throbbed with a sort of numb cold in his abdomen, their paths of travel slowed enough by the ligerskin greatcloak that his carbonized bones and denser muscle tissue stopped them before they had drilled straight through him. The shoulder wound was still trickling, but it would seal itself in time as the lighter wounds had. That would be bad: that bullet was also still inside him, as were the two in his guts that he hoped had not punctured anything ultimately vital or processed toxins out of his bloodstream; he would at least have some time that way. Damage assessment would have to wait until after the rounds were removed to be accurate. He clenched and unclenched the hand on his wounded arm, trying to ascertain if there was any nerve damage from the hydrostatic shock that might impede his ability to pilot a mobile suit. He watched dimly as his attacker fled, using the crowd as a shield, a smaller figure that could only be de la Somme in hot pursuit but losing ground to the panicked masses moving towards the side streets and towards the emergency vehicles that were arriving on scene.

"_ALIVE!_" the General bellowed in fury, Command Voice projecting like a spear towards its intended target, the bullets having at least missed his lungs and diaphragm. "_I WANT HIM **ALIVE**!_"

He sensed more than saw von Seydlitz come up beside him, and he accepted the assistance in moving towards the stage steps, fighting a wave of dizziness and nausea that was a shock reaction to the pain. He consciously kicked up his endorphin levels and his adrenalin to act as dampeners against the shock. He had to remain steady and conscious enough to avoid being pawed by cattle doctors, any of whom could be another assassin in hiding. He also had to hide the extent of his wounds from his foster brother, for reasons that varied from needing to remove a cause of concern to fear that von Seydlitz would seize this opportunity and eliminate him as no longer worthy of the Throne. He did not want to dwell on the idea that the locals might decide to save themselves by trying to claim his head for ransom with the Titans if they discovered that he was never going to be easier to capture or kill than right now. In the case of von Seydlitz, a more rational portion of his mind called his prudence as paranoia, but it was a chance he dared not take no matter how remote.

"Stay still, Dietrich," said von Seydlitz calmly amidst the cacophony of the fleeing crowd, voice as steady as ever but hushed as though what he had to say was worth secrecy. "You had one crease your skull on the left side deep enough that I can see the bone; another struck your left temple a glancer, but the damage there seems slight enough. There may be a concussion."

"Irrelevant," grated out von Mellenthin, though he allowed himself to lean a little into von Seydlitz anyway, managing to cover the holes in his uniform where his guts were. "Get me to the command post. I have to cut this damned piece of lead out of my shoulder before the clotting makes it a part of me. The balls of that. . ._miserable little insect_! I want him, Reinhardt; I want to know who he is and where he came from. Shooting me with that popgun in _public_! If he's Tizard's, I'll level this town and everything in it as we leave!" He glanced at his wrist chrono, wincing slightly at the movement. "_Verdammter bissiger Schweinhund!_ Not enough time to put him to the Question, is there? No matter, he'll still beg to die before we're done with him!"

Ogun's _Dom Tropen_, the suit that had caused the masses to scatter so rapidly during the incident, finally stomped its way into the town square, which was emptying rapidly. The locals were dragging their crowd-trampled along with them towards the flashing lights of the emergency services vehicles, and the massive suit entered unimpeded, stepping around the ambulances and smaller moving groups of frightened locals. The _Polizei_ remained outside the town square, wisely. The green mono-eye locked onto the two Zeon officers below it.

"**Sir,**" reported Ogun over the _Dom Tropen_'s loudspeaker, "**the town is secure. Tornado One is in pursuit of the assassin on foot. An enemy mobile suit is approaching rapidly from the west on an attack vector, ETA in less than one minute.**"

Von Mellenthin scowled. "_Spasti!_ It's too soon!" He yanked away from von Seydlitz and pointed up at the _Dom Tropen_'s mono-eye with his good arm. "That suit is _not_ to be allowed access into Hameln! Deal with it, _Oberstabsfeld_! I'll be there shortly!" He clutched the greatcloak around himself, his good hand using a piece of the cloak to scrub some of the blood off of his face from the nearly-sealed scalp wound. With a sharp jab, he dug two fingers into the hole the bullet left in his uniform top and undershirt, fingertips ripping through his own muscle tissue and meat. With a snarl and grimace of pain he did not bother to try and hide, he probed for, found, and tore the bullet out of his own shoulder, his blood painting his fingers scarlet-crimson along with the lead slug.

He wished fervently the other two were so easily dealt with, but he was accustomed enough with wounds to know better.

He handed the bloody souvenir to von Seydlitz. "Find that piece of shit, Reinhardt. Find him and bring him to me _alive_. Have him ready before I get back from the border, and keep the others on schedule for movement. We leave as planned, once I defuse this Titan nincompoop and his horde." He closed von Seydlitz's hand over the bullet with his own, his blood drying to rust-hued stickiness in the Colonel's palm. "_Find_ him, Reinhardt. Hunt." The last word was delivered in a growl that was almost a whisper behind clenched teeth. The endorphins were not going to be enough to hide the searing agony in his innards for long.

Von Seydlitz's grey eyes gleamed with a predatory malice, identical to the one in von Mellenthin's own eyes but with a veneer of feverishness he could not have attributed to his new orders. The General gave his foster brother a hard shove. "_HUNT_, Reinhardt! He is _PREY!_"

The Colonel dropped the bullet onto the ground and took off running, much faster than de la Somme could run. He would catch up easily. Von Mellenthin laughed in anticipation, hiding the pain beneath his mirth, and was still laughing when he walked away towards where his _Zaku Hi-Mo_ was parked and ready, its med-kit possessing what he would need to continue to function until they could get out of Hameln and somewhere that he could let his guard down long enough to perhaps save his life. Von Seydlitz would not fail. He only hoped he could say the same for himself.

------------------------------------

"_Raver One, Tornado Nine. Lion One says to intercept the enemy suit and prevent it from entering Hameln. Stop him on the bridge, Commander, I'm on my way._"

"Roger that," responded Margul to Ogun's transmission, mouth watering in anticipation. "I'll make this clown eat the corn out of my shit. Take your sweet-ass time." Roberts' _Gelgoog Marine Commander_ was already in the river and moving, and he was the only available unit up to meet the Titans suit. He rubbed his hands together and brought his _Kaempfer_ to full combat status. Yellow lights indicated how low on thruster propellant he was, but it would make no difference. He had more than enough to deal with one Titan mobile suit.

The enemy suit was already in firing range of his 360mm bazookas, and speeding closer with each passing second. The cameras caught sight of it: that same weird suit that kept moving back and forth all day. This was going to be special, stealing a kill from Roberts. Margul knew how fixated on this particular Titan the Marine had become.

With a harsh bark of laughter, Margul triggered his bazooka once, to get the Titan's attention more than to actually hit the suit, and then he stowed it and brought out the shotgun again. He launched a green flare into the night sky, a warning signal to let the Zeon know that there was an attack; he wondered if it was even noticeable among the rest of the fireworks, but it was done nonetheless. It made him feel better about it, at least.

Close and dirty was how the 'Demon' liked it. He wanted to make sure the Titan knew just how much before he died.

-------------------------------------

A 360mm shell burst in the air just to the front of Sajer's _Barzam_, doing no damage. _So they are paying attention_. He was not worried in any event; according to the test results from SpaceCom and his briefing, few things short of beam weaponry could hurt his _Barzam_ and its gundarium armor. Nevertheless, he brought his suit back down to earth, landing just on the near side of the _Muensterbruecke_ bridge. The Zeon side of Hameln lay on the far side. A green flare arced into the air, sizzling.

"So they don't want me coming in, do they?" he huffed, annoyed and exhilarated at once. "Let's see the fuckers try and stop me!"

The _Barzam_ began to walk across the bridge, beam rifle cradled in its hands haphazardly, a mocking testimony to the seeming invincibility the suit represented. He dared the Zeon shooter to take another potshot at him; he would enjoy lighting up the night sky with a burning 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ mobile suit to pay them back for these days of endless waiting and the 103rd's humiliation at Steinbaum. . .but really more for the damned waiting. Cramer had deserved to die.

A single Zeon suit stepped out from behind a building on the far side of the bridge, bristling with weaponry, spikes, and danger. Sajer's eyes flickered over the sidescreen HUD display that identified the enemy suit as one of the late-War minimal-production types, an MS-18E _Kaempfer_; its payload was primarily conventional weapons. He did not fail to take note of the sigil of the flayed screaming man on the right breast of the suit: an ace's mark. _'Demon' Margul, come out to finally die. Killing you will give me a notch in reputation even Tizard can't compete with!_ He opened up a broad-spectrum radio channel. "You don't seriously think your outmoded piece of space trash suit can stop this one, do you?"

"_Good thing I don't take your dumb ass seriously, shitstain. Back the hell out of Hameln before I skulldrag that wannabe mono-eye down Main Street_."

Margul's voice sounded as brutish as his reputation was. Sajer grinned. "You're showing your age, oldtimer. Who's in that relic? You can't be Margul, even the history books say he's as dead as Daikun. Tell you what, because I'm feeling sorry for you, I'll _let_ you take the first shot with that little toy. C'mon, give me the best that you've got, you and your tin-can _Kaempfer_!"

He continued moving the _Barzam_ forward over the bridge; he was about a quarter of the way across now. A couple of simple commands, and the beam rifle dropped to the Titan suit's side, held in one hand and aimed down towards its feet. "See? I'm wide open. Go ahead, see if you can hurt me and my suit. Bet you can't even scratch this armor." Sajer grinned viciously, voice full of scorn. "Let's go, 'Demon'; make me famous."

"_Your funeral, fucktard_," was Margul's reply, and the _Kaempfer_ went from a standstill to the very embodiment of fury before Sajer could get his guard back up.

-------------------------------------

The Titan was way too smug to be a veteran, strolling along as though he did not even care that there was a Zeon high-performance suit staring him down from the other side of the bridge and talking out of his ass the entire time. When the dick lowered his rifle and begged to get popped, Margul decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth when he could be kicking it in the ass. His orders were to stop the Titan incursion into the Zeon-occupied Hameln safe zone; the invader would be removed. Normally, he would just shoot the idiot, but since his foe appeared to have come alone, he could take all the time in the world for a piece of one-on-one action.

'_. . .Make me famous. . .'_. De la Somme's words to him at Steinbaum, when he was going to split that little shit kid that the 'Killing Star' had fallen in love with, coming out of a Titan's ignorant mouth. Margul saw red. This was going to be even better than he thought.

The _Kaempfer_ burned a sizeable bit of its remaining thruster propellant going from full stop to 1.1 Gs of forward velocity right off the mark. Margul felt squashed into his acceleration seat for the four seconds it took to cover the few hundred meters between the two mobile suits. He lurched forward as he cut the acceleration and fired all of his forward-facing thrusters, skidding the _Kaempfer_ to almost a complete stop in front of the enemy, cutting the Titan off from moving any more forward over the bridge and bringing his own suit inside the firing angle of the enemy's rifle, which had just begun to elevate again in response to Margul's move. Now he was too close for the Titan to use it.

The _Kaempfer_'s arms, hands full of mobile suit-sized folding-stock shotgun, smashed into the enemy suit's torso, shoving it backwards with the impact. Margul followed through with the hit and slammed the shotgun down onto the Titan's beam rifle; the force of the blow managed to knock the rifle back down and out of the _Barzam_'s hand, the weapon dropping off the bridge and into the Weser, but it also shattered the shotgun's stock, the pieces falling onto the bridge or over the side. As the Titan suit staggered back another step, reeling from the ferocity of the _Kaempfer_'s assault, Margul grinned and followed it in, staying close enough to touch.

The Titan finally wised up that Margul was serious, or he was just pissed about losing his rifle. Streaks of tracers reached out from the enemy suit's head as the still-unstable Titan's head Vulcans fired at the shorter _Kaempfer_; Margul had fought enough GMs in the past to anticipate that tactic and the _Kaempfer_ ducked beneath the tracer trail before too many of the high-velocity 60mm rounds punched through his thin-skinned hide, and the Zeon mobile suit crashed its spiked shoulder into its foe's midriff, almost driving it completely off of the bridge and back onto the mainland. The Titan suit stayed on its feet somehow; Margul had to give it credit, because not much stayed upright after a 73-ton shoulder slam. Flipping the shotgun around a finger in a grandiose twirl, the _Kaempfer_ shoved the weapon up into the other suit's face and squeezed the trigger.

The blast enveloped the _Barzam_'s head, snapping it backwards on its neck pivot with the force of the shot, and the bigger suit staggered back even further. Margul sneered at the ease this fight was proving. The Titan had barely put up a struggle and he had already removed its ability to do him harm at range. He could peel the other suit apart at leisure whenever he wanted---

The Titan suit's leg lashed out and front-kicked the _Kaempfer_ in the chest with enough force to make the Zeon suit skid backwards with a squeal of metal on asphalt and stagger-step to avoid falling down. Margul's sneer turned into a grimace as his teeth clacked together painfully, and he growled in disbelief at the main camera picture and the sound of the Titan pilot laughing at him.

The shotgun blast, at point-blank range, had done what seemed to be no appreciable damage to the Titan suit; neither had the smash to the enemy's torso or the shoulder slam. With only the loss of its beam rifle, the _Barzam_ was unharmed by the _Kaempfer_'s attacks. Even the paint seemed unscathed.

Margul brought the reticle for his own twin head Vulcans to bear and fired, feeling the chatter of the 60mms down in the cockpit and in his bones. The twin streams of tracer fire stitched a path through the night that connected the two suits, then broke apart into short-lived fireflies that illuminated random portions of the surrounding landscape as they deflected harmlessly off of the _Barzam_ and whizzed away, flying through the air or splashing into the river's water below. Sparks flew off of the black-and-red suit, but its armor did not yield to the Vulcans' onslaught of shells. Margul ceased his firing after about a hundred rounds from the guns were expended, realizing how futile they were at hurting his enemy.

"_Is that the best you can do, 'Demon'?_" giggled the enemy pilot evilly. "_You made me drop my rifle, but I can still light up your life as I see fit._"

_Shit,_ cursed Margul inwardly, _what the fuck am I fighting here?_ This was not the kind of Titan he wanted to negotiate with, especially now that they both knew how invulnerable the Titan's suit was to the _Kaempfer_'s weapons. He was too close to use his heavier-caliber bazookas or his remaining _Panzerfaust_ antiarmor rocket without damaging his own suit or collapsing the bridge. The Titan was out for his blood now, and Margul watched as the enemy suit began to advance towards him in a leisurely stroll identical to the one it was using when it had first arrived on the bridge, hands clenching and unclenching as though it were going to rip the _Kaempfer_ apart limb from limb.

"_Before you die,_" continued the enemy pilot, "_tell me how it feels to be totally combat ineffective and cowering in fear, Spacenoid scum. Tell me how it feels to finally know that everything you've done since 0079 has led you to this moment, when you realize that you never stood a chance of ever beating Earth. Tell me!_" The _Barzam_'s right hand was suddenly filled with beam saber as the hilt snapped out of its wrist and into the waiting palm. A brilliant pink-red beam flared to life as the saber activated, and the Titan lunged forward, swinging the saber back for an overhead slash.

------------------------------------

"_Saber One, this is Saber Main. Still unable to contact Saber Five Omega on this net or any other. Crusader Main reports audibles on heavy caliber weapons fire from Hameln, as well as audibles on close-contact combat, over._"

"Acknowledged," replied Tizard as his _Marasai_ and its escorts sped towards 2nd Battalion's line. "It's safe to assume that Saber Five Omega is currently engaged with Zeon forces inside the Hameln cordon. Inform Crusader One that I'll be bypassing his AO and proceeding to Hameln to retrieve our wayward unit, but he is not to proceed any further than his designated AO boundary." He cycled his main camera towards distant Hameln, trying to catch a glimpse of Sajer's _Barzam_, but even at 50x power there were too many lights to distinguish one from another. "Has Paladin One been given the sitrep?"

"_Roger, Saber One, Saber Three has sent Paladin Main all available information, as well as your instructions to Crusader. Paladin One acknowledged all._"

Tizard was relieved that Armistead would not jump into the fray in the absence of Palaccio's response to what was obviously a fight inside the cordon. "Excellent. I'm less than a minute from Hameln now, Saber Main, so I'll be offline once I cross the AO boundary. I will most likely be on the ground with someone from the Zeon chain of command trying to salvage this debacle. Saber Three is in nominal command until I come back on the net. Saber One, out."

The _Marasai_ and its pair of GM II escorts cruised over the laager area for 2nd Battalion. Tizard acknowledged Palaccio's _Hizack Custom_'s wave with a salute with his shield as they rocketed over the TOC. His eyes narrowed as Hameln began to grow in his camera's view. He switched his frequency to the internal net for close comms with his escorts. "Lancer Four, Lancer Five, Saber One. Hang back one hundred meters from my lead. Do not, I say again, do _not_ set down anywhere across the river. I will handle Saber Five Omega personally. Acknowledge, over."

"_Saber One, Lancer Four,_" responded the escort team leader, "_acknowledge orders. I've got eyes on Saber Five Omega on the south bridge. Looks like he's in a fight, sir. Can't make out what he's engaged with yet._"

Tizard zoomed in on the _Muensterbruecke_. "Saber One, roger. I've got visual as well. Good eyes, Lancer Four. Follow my lead in and remember your orders." Tizard veered southwards towards the flare of Sajer's beam saber, recognizing the Zeon suit as a _Kaempfer_, probably the on-shift sentinel when Sajer made his approach. There was no sign of any other Zeon unit in the immediate location. _I may not be too late after all._

------------------------------------

Sajer had been stunned by the ferocity of the Zeon suit's attack. Margul had been relentless in his assault, brutal in his tactics, and gave no room for even the most basic of counterattacks. Now the Titan pilot labored to control the panting his breathing had become. He had walked into Hameln, risking everything to display a message, and had been rudely awakened to the danger by a primal sort of terror at the intensity of Margul's offensive. The man had seriously been trying to kill him, holding nothing back. The head Vulcans had been an act of desperation on Sajer's part, as the smaller and older mobile suit had viciously manhandled his _Barzam_ back off of the bridge.

This was totally unlike anything Sajer had experienced in his six years of piloting mobile suits. It was definitely not like sparring with _Hizacks_ in a simulated battle. This was real, ugly, noisy, and frightening, and it was in his face, knocking his beam rifle out of his hand as it knocked his confidence to the floor. His training centered on killing a foe at long range whenever possible, with melee fighting as a last-resort measure, and while he was good at it, it still was not something to want to have to do unless necessary; Margul appeared to have come from an entirely different school of mobile suit combat technique. For the first time in his career, Garrett Sajer had experienced what it was like to face death head-on. A small part of his shocked brain wondered if this was how Cramer's 103rd had felt at Steinbaum facing the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_, or how all those Federation troops had felt during the War when the Zeon _Zaku_ was the God of Battle. Another part of his brain tried desperately to hold his bladder under control while it screamed at him that this might not have been the wisest of ideas on his part, and that this Zeon ace was going to flay him alive like the screaming man on the _Kaempfer_'s right breast because _that was what he had been doing for YEARS---_

The shotgun blast, amazingly, had been what had snapped Sajer out of the logic loop of terror that had seized his brain and his nerves in its grip. The _Barzam_'s gyro controls on the moveable frame had been what kept the suit from falling backwards after the shotgun unloaded right into its faceplate, and the _Kaempfer_ had backed off from its attack. With his heartbeat thumping in his ears like a runaway train, Sajer managed to reason that Margul believed he had crippled the _Barzam_. Sajer's quick eye scanned the status diagram on the left HUD, and was amazed by how intact his suit had remained. Even the shotgun blast had failed to harm his _Barzam_ significantly. One of the subcameras in the head was out of commission, and there was some damage to the left Vulcan, but beyond that, nothing Margul had done to him had punched through the gundarium skin.

That was all the incentive Sajer had needed to get back into the fight. Laughing, he had kicked the Zeon suit, making it lose all the ground it had gained. The _Barzam_ was powerful beyond anything the _Kaempfer_ could match except for sheer speed. Oh, it was a nimble little suit, but its weaponry was useless. It could kill GMs and _Hizacks_, but Garrett Sajer was more invincible than a dragon. He let the 60mms from the Zeon suit's Vulcans bounce harmlessly off of his suit until Margul admitted that they were as effective as pebbles against a tank.

Now, Sajer advanced at a walk again, beam saber unleashed in his _Barzam_'s right hand, and the mono-eye seemed to shrink as it cowered before his might. 'Demon' Margul was about to meet his end on a bridge in Hameln at the hands of a single Titan mobile suit. Sajer wished the ace could see him and the smile he would have on his face at his demise. The saber arced back for a slash that would cut everything off of the _Kaempfer_ from its spiked shoulder assemblies-up with one slice.

The _Kaempfer_ did not back away; Sajer wondered for a millisecond why it did not. The saber swung, aiming to cleave the 'Demon' in two---

The _Kaempfer_'s left arm reached up and caught the _Barzam_'s saber arm in mid-swing, fingers closing over the wrist and halting the slash before the saber's charged-particle blade could connect. Sajer felt his jaw drop open in disbelief. "What the fuck---?"

Margul's suit dropped the shotgun from its right hand, the weapon landing on the bridge, and the right hip assembly on the Zeon suit opened, revealing a beam saber hilt. Sajer realized what was about to happen and activated the second beam saber in his _Barzam_'s left wrist sheath, but he would have to reach across his own suit's torso to strike with the new saber, and the _Kaempfer_'s right hand was already moving. Instead of drawing from the left hip with the right hand as it normally would have, Margul dropped the right hand straight down to the right hip, gripping the beam saber hilt upside-down and yanking it straight up. A yellow beam of plasma and Minovsky particles burst into life as the _Kaempfer_ drew the blade from its hip sheath, and the Zeon machine followed-through with an upwards slash, neatly and cleanly severing the _Barzam_'s right arm at the center of the forearm nearly at the elbow.

-----------------------------------------

Margul heard the enemy pilot shriek in fury as the Titan suit's hand and half its right forearm sailed through the air and landed in the river with gouts of superheated steam and a splash, and he practically howled with laughter. The stupid shit had opened himself up completely.

"Thanks for the favor, pissant!" he growled in glee over the open comm channel. He transferred the beam saber to the left hand as the wounded Titan machine stepped backwards, much like a wounded man would have, clutching its remaining beam saber and holding it across its body to shield its torso. "Still think we're playing fucking charades here, or is there still some asshole in you that I ain't puckered yet?"

"_YOU SONOFAWHORE! OH YOU BASTARD! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU! KILL_ YOU KILLLLLL----!" screamed the Titan, berserk from rage and damaged pride, voice breaking from the strain of his tirade.

Margul winced from the volume of the Titan's screeching. "Shut the fuck up, sissy! Your cryin's making my dick hard. Do me a fucking favor: take a picture of your cockgobbling face so that after I'm done with your bitch-ass, I can know what being freshly fucked looks like. It'll be one of those souvenirs I've got so many of, just another dead fucking Feddie turd like all the others. You gonna do that for me, queerbait?"

"_I'M A TITAN, GOD DAMN YOU! A_ TITAN"

"What the fuck ever. I eat Titans and shit Feddies, so it really don't make a difference, does it?" Margul activated the left side beam saber, the right hand reaching across to draw it from the hip, and the _Kaempfer_ began to advance, twirling twin yellow beam sabers as it stalked towards the damaged Titan suit. "I'm gonna ask you _real nicely_, fuckstick, and you got three more limbs left to decide with. . ."

He could hear the Titan pilot whimpering over the speaker, and he laughed his brutish laugh again. The proximity warning alarm suddenly went off, and he looked up to see three more black-and-red mobile suits approaching from behind his enemy, descending fast. "Friends of yours, sweet pea? Too bad they're _too late!_"

The _Kaempfer_ launched itself towards the wounded _Barzam_, sabers swinging. The Titan suit backed itself completely off of the bridge and away from the attack, its single saber poised to deflect one of Margul's but powerless to do anything about where the second one would land. Margul actually heard the enemy pilot squeal in fright as the Titan withdrew.

One of the new arrivals, several meters shorter than its wounded cousin and its escorts, touched down right behind the retreating _Barzam_, wrapping its left arm around the damaged suit in a backwards embrace, bringing the shield it bore around the torso of the _Barzam_ to cover it, while its mono-eyed head and right arm stuck out from beneath the _Barzam_'s right shoulder to shove its beam rifle's muzzle at the advancing _Kaempfer_. Margul halted his forward movement and actually leapt several meters backwards and away from the new Titans and their friend in a burst of thruster fire, realizing that now he was the one in trouble. The other two Titan suits, GM-types, landed to the left and right of the one that had grabbed the _Barzam_ and had the Zeon suit in a triangular crossfire, with the _Kaempfer_ a sitting duck on the bridge.

"Come on, you fucking _fucks_!" he snarled into the open channel, both sabers up as the _Kaempfer_ faced down the four Titan suits. "I'll gut-smear all four of you faggots at once! Put the shooters away and fight me fair, chickenshits!"

Salvation from being riddled from three directions came in the form of a sudden jarring crash as Sergeant Major Ogun's _Dom Tropen_ skidded to a halt right behind the _Kaempfer_, the immense bulk of its 880mm raketen bazooka coming to rest between the right shoulder spikes and the head of Margul's smaller suit; the huge barrel of the 880mm was aimed right at the head of the shorter mono-eyed Titan suit. Nobody and nothing dared move without turning the Mexican standoff into an atrocity, for while the Titans could kill both the Zeon suits with their combined firepower, the chances of either of the Titans in the firing arc of the raketen bazooka surviving a shot at this range were very slim, and it would only take one of the mammoth rocket-propelled munitions to reduce both suits into shavings and debris.

"_Having all the fun without me, Commander? You should be ashamed. I just stopped to pick up something a little heavier to greet our guests with._" objected Ogun through the skin-touch, the _Dom Tropen_'s left hand pressed against the back of the _Kaempfer_.

"What the fuck, Ogun? You using me as a shield?"

"_What the hell else are officers good for, sir?_" responded the Sergeant Major earnestly.

"Eat shit and die, non-com." Still, even though Ogun was 15th Fast Attack through and through, which made him de la Somme's underling, Margul was thankful for the sudden increase in firepower as well as the company. If the new Titan suit was even half as tough as the one he'd been fighting, Margul reckoned on his chances of surviving as being very slim indeed. "This is about to get real fucking fun now. . ."

"_Zeon,_" broke in a new voice over the broadband channel, "_this is Titans Major Tizard, CO of the 54th Titans Tactical Armored Brigade. Identify yourselves._"

Ogun did the talking, for which Margul was grateful, as he was in no mood to be negotiable with any Titan at the moment. "_This is Sergeant Major Ogun of the 15th Fast Attack Battalion, 10th_ Panzerkaempfer _Division. Your presence within the city limits of Hameln is in violation of the Sanctuary provided to us by local authority and by Federation law, as is your unprovoked attack on one of our units. Unless you are intending to defect to our side or offer your guidon to us in surrender, it would behoove you to depart this area at once._"

Tizard actually laughed at that, and Margul realized that he had found just the right Titan to make his case towards if the opportunity ever arose. All of a sudden, his gratitude at Ogun's presence evaporated as quickly as the chance to speak with the Titan commander did.

"_Not today, Sergeant Major. Indeed, an explanation for my subordinate's behavior is in order. I would prefer to offer it, as well as my apologies for the trouble, to General von Mellenthin personally before I depart._"

Before Ogun could respond, another voice broke into the channel, smooth but hard: "_Then offer it, Major, but if you intend to beg forgiveness, you should be on your knees._" Walking across the bridge from behind the _Dom Tropen_ was von Mellenthin's R1-A _Zaku II Hi-Mo_, twin MMP-80s locked and loaded, one trained on each of the GM IIs on the far bank of the Weser; no Titan's weapon was covering von Mellenthin.

The General's mobile suit halted about three hundred meters behind its two subordinates' suits, out of the backblast range of the raketen bazooka. "_Now that we're all here, I would truly love to hear the explanation for this intrusion, Major. What the hell are you doing in my town?_"

-------------------------------------

Tizard clenched his teeth at the tone of the voice that spilled out of his receiver. Like it or not, von Mellenthin was in the right of it, and his cause was seemingly more just than Sajer's had been, considering the state the _Barzam_ was in compared to Vladimir Margul's relatively undamaged _Kaempfer_. "Merely retrieving my wayward soldier, General. Apparently, there was some kind of disturbance involving gunshots and my young Captain decided to come and investigate. In his haste, he did not bother to inform me of his plan, and the end result is, as you can see, evident. I take it you and yours are all right?"

"_Inasmuch as they can be,_" came von Mellenthin's curt reply. "_The disturbance was a local matter that has been dealt with by local authorities. There were gunshots, true, but it has not yet been determined who the target was or the motive behind the attempt. I trust you know nothing about a man with a pistol in a priest's trappings, do you?_"

Tizard mulled that over for a brief moment. "I'm afraid not." _But I think I have an idea who may._

Von Mellenthin's baritone voice sounded smug. "_I thought not. You seem to be a chivalrous man, Major, and sending an assassin as inept as this one would be most rude, would it not? My suggestion would be to take your entourage and leave while my sense of hospitality remains in sway over my outrage at this entire affair._"

Tizard grimaced at the rebuke. "Very well, General. Thank you for your understanding. I shall take my leave." The _Marasai_ lowered its beam rifle and released the _Barzam_, straightening to its full height. The GM IIs did likewise, and Tizard was relieved to see the Zeon _Dom Tropen_ relax its aim with the 880mm bazooka.

"_Still,_" continued von Mellenthin suddenly, "_I think it prudent we should avoid such 'misunderstandings' in the future, and I'm certain you do as well. Since it was your soldier that violated the Sanctuary, I think it only fair that you concede to me a ransom for my mercy and generosity. You concur, Major?_"

Tizard's palms began to sweat. He had hoped to avoid this. "I. . .do indeed, General. State your _danegeld_."

Von Mellenthin snickered audibly. "'Danegeld'? _You've some education indeed, Major. Yes, _danegeld _it is. Withdraw your cordon to a radius of twelve kilometers distance from the city limits of Hameln. Have your relocation from this place completed in four hours' time, or I'll ask for your 'wayward soldier's head as penalty for noncompliance, among other more damaging chastisements. Is that reasonable enough, Major?_"

In truth, Tizard was seething, but it could have been much worse. "Quite reasonable, indeed, General. Is there anything else?"

"_No. You may go now_."

"_Major?_" came Sajer's voice from the radio, obviously furious, "_we're not just going to let him do this, are we? He's right there, we can kill him now and end all of this---!_"

"Lancers Four and Five, secure Saber Five Omega and take him back to Aerzen. I am not through with him yet by far. Ensure he makes it there intact and without further incident." Tizard's _Marasai_ gestured towards the damaged _Barzam_ with its shield. As Sajer sputtered his protests over the commo channel, the two GM IIs locked down their weapons and grabbed the _Barzam_, one on each arm, and the three suits launched into the sky, the GM IIs carrying the larger suit between them.

Tizard's main camera swung back towards the bridge to look at von Mellenthin's _Zaku Hi-Mo_. The Zeon General had stowed one of the MMP-80s, but had one still cradled in the suit's arms. The _Zaku_ moved out of the way as the _Dom Tropen_ led the _Kaempfer_ back over the bridge towards the Zeon side of the river, but the red mono-eye of its main camera never left the _Marasai_.

"_Oh, and Major Tizard?_" came von Mellenthin's voice, almost as an offhand. "_Train your chimps better. I may not be around to save them from my people next time._"

Tizard licked his lips. This really was not enjoyable to have to endure, and he swore inwardly that he would make certain he would never be put in this position again. "I'll do that, General. Have a pleasant morning."

He could feel von Mellenthin's beatific smile through the radio. "_I already have, Major. I already have._"

------------------------------

Von Mellenthin was grateful that the commo suites differed enough from Federation to Zeon design that visuals of the pilots were extraordinarily difficult to exchange without mutual signal acceptance. He had no idea what his face looked like at this juncture, but he knew it definitely was not as up to par as his voice was. The pain was beyond anything he had encountered before, the two .45 caliber slugs in his belly burning quite nicely in spite of the battery of painkillers and antibiotics he had dumped into himself to bolster his already formidable immune system and trauma tolerances. In the middle of the cinders slow-roasting his innards, he could feel the telltale tingling of the skin around the bullet wounds as the tissue around the punctures worked on closing themselves up with clots to stop unnecessary blood loss; his nerves refused to deaden and lose sensory input. The wound in his shoulder was already sealed, but it still hurt like hell even though he was no longer in danger from it.

The analysis his brain dutifully fed him utilizing the available information was as clinical as a bio-scholar's genetic adjudication. Once the two in his abdomen were closed off, he would be running on borrowed time. If an infection even his superior-than-normal immune system could not defeat did not set in around the bullets, both from the invasion of outside bacteria and pieces of his own uniform, then it would be toxemic shock from blood poisoning as his body tried to break the bullets down and succeeded only in stripping contaminants from their surfaces to run amok through his circulatory system. The toxins would reach his endocrine system, and then overwhelm its ability to pass them, shutting down liver and kidney functions. Death would be slow, agonizing, and conclusive. They had semesters' worth of classes on wounds, trauma, and their effects at Gross-Lichterfelde Academy, all useful tools and information to accentuate the art of killing a foe how you saw fit, where to hurt someone most immediately or where would cause the most long-term damage over time; where to kill them swiftly or at leisure in a manner of your choosing. Power of life and death was a refined science.

He looked patently forward to exacting one such studied method on the assassin priest that had done this to him; while it would prove much more immediately fatal, its psychological effects would make death seem eternal in patience and arrival. It would also solve a problem of a monumentally different nature that he had become aware of not too long ago.

As the Titans Major's mobile suit launched itself back towards their cordon line, he turned his _Zaku_ around and set it on its way back to Hameln's center. "Raver One, Lion One."

"_Raver One here_."

"Good job handling that situation, _Kommandant_. You've done extremely well tonight. Prepare to initiate movement in half an hour. Eagle One and myself will follow you afterwards." He used von Seydlitz's new call sign; the Colonel refused to respond to 'Unsullied One' anymore, not after losing Dalyev and Haskell. Von Mellenthin could empathize, since he had given up 'Ghost One' after Metz and changed his call sign accordingly. Margul had kept 'Raver One' instead of choosing a new call sign, something de la Somme had quipped about, declaring Margul's refusal to let go as evidence that Margul would just fail to remember his new moniker anyway.

"_Just doing the job, sir._"

"Tut, no need for modesty. You had the Federation _Pfiffe_ at your mercy and everyone knew it." It was almost cruel to feed Margul compliments, von Mellenthin deduced, since he was going to keep his promise from so many years ago to de la Somme and let his vindictive foster brother disembowel and fillet Margul sooner or later for his sins. The kid had been patient enough to warrant it, and more than earned it in spite of his doubts.

Margul snorted. "_It was a little closer than that, sir,_" he admitted grudgingly. "_The fuckrag couldn't fight for shit, but that suit. . .I've never seen a suit walk away from the kind of asskicking I gave it and not give a damn. It's better 'n anything we've got, General, I shit you not. Beam saber's all that would hurt the fucker. Goddamn armor took a shoulder slam and didn't even buckle._"

"It's now minus a hand, so I would say it's not nearly the danger it once was at the moment. Nevertheless, when you're finished with your movement, upload your gun camera footage to every suit in the unit. I want everyone to see your fight and judge the capabilities of that Titan suit for themselves. There may be more of those waiting for us that we simply haven't seen yet. Not at all like those _Zaku_ knockoffs or those GMs, was it?"

"_Didn't even move like they do, sir._"

_May as well have deployed a Gundam, but Margul would have bested it, too. It's more the pilot than the suit. Just like it always has been._ A wave of nausea passed over von Mellenthin, and he swallowed it back, feeling a cold sweat forming on his skin against his Will. He stamped it back with another endorphin burst, but he was losing the energy to keep committing his reserves to maintaining readiness around the pain. He needed to finalize his movement and take something that would knock him out completely for several hours, to rebuild his strength until he could get to someplace he could perform some personal surgery of an invasive nature and remove the two unwelcome passengers. "Best we leave them all behind, then, while they uproot and haul their asses to their new boundary. _Oberstabsfeld_, has Airborne One reported whether or not the interloper has been detained?"

Ogun's voice sounded far too chipper for 0200 hours. "_Affirmative. Onslaught Two just called Ghost Main and got confirmation. Eagle One has the detainee in custody and is returning to his TAC,_" a polite way of saying 'St. Bonificatus Cathedral', "_to await your arrival._"

"Very well. Make certain the children have been delivered to the _Rathaus_ and that the town has assumed custody, then instruct Ghost Main to pack everything up and move. You go with them. _Oberst_ von Seydlitz and myself will be the last off the ground, once we deal with our would-be hitman."

"_Acknowledge all. We'll be waiting, sir._"

Von Mellenthin smiled tightly. "We won't dilly-dally too long, so no one fall asleep on the job. I'll see you there. Lion One, out." His smile grew a little wider as his _Zaku_ broke away from the column and moved towards the southern end of the city. "Not long at all. . ."

**Aerzen, Niedersachsen, Central Europe**

**November 24, 0087**

"Saber One, Saber Three; I---" it was a rare occasion that Captain Volkyr was caught off-guard and speechless, but the orders he had just received made him severely doubt the sanity of his commanding officer. "---I'm not certain I heard correctly, but I believe you said to _move_ the cordon?"

"_That's right, I said move them. All of them. Widen the perimeter of the cordon to a minimum distance of twelve kilometers from Hameln. I want it done within the next two hours, Saber Three._" Tizard's voice was smooth as ever over the radio now that he was out of the Minovsky net. "_It's imperative that we reduce the damage done to our public position with the locals after Saber Five Omega's blunder, and this is the ransom for the Zeons' mercy. If we fail to achieve our movement objective by the time given, then it gives the Zeon all the excuse to castigate us with the German press. I will not allow our name in Europe to be sullied in the media as our Space forces have been. Honor is at stake. Make Paladin One and Crusader One divide up their movement times to stagger the coverage while we shift. Saber Main stays in Aerzen. You have one hour to plan, one hour to execute._"

"Understood, sir," replied Volkyr into the handset, a headache beginning to form behind his eyes as his Operations-driven head began to try and wrap around the magnitude of moving the entire Brigade around an area of operations almost three times larger in circumference than their original AO and still maintain coverage. "I'll contact Crusader Three and Paladin Three immediately. Where will you be?"

"_Leave Crusader to me, I'll be handling things here with Saber Five Omega. Get the rest of Saber moving ASAP. No mistakes, Three, time is crucial._"

**Hameln, Niedersachsen, Central Europe**

**November 24, 0087**

Five minutes and nearly twenty 500mg ketoprofen later, von Mellenthin's _Zaku Hi-Mo_ was parked beside von Seydlitz's _Gouf Custom_ in the shadow of the cathedral's steeple, and the General himself stood outside the doors for the second time in the same evening. Taking the ketoprofen was an act of sheer desperation, since it was also a blood thinner and he had lost quite a bit of it already. He had to keep everything exactly as it would be as if he were not walking with two bullets in himself; to show injury or pain in the face of this piece of offal simply would not do, especially as it would also alert von Seydlitz to the severity of his condition and that would not do, either. No, Dietrich von Mellenthin would endure, survive, and overcome, or die in the trying, but he would show no weakness before then. He was beyond suffering a peasant's death, not when there was still time to continue living a lord's life.

With more effort than would normally be required, he pushed the door open, stepping inside the warmer interior of the cathedral and walking through the foyer and into the nave. The scene that greeted him this time was much different than how he had left it, and he quirked an eyebrow as he approached the darkened form of von Seydlitz near the altar. The lights were dimmed so low it was almost impossible to distinguish shadow from darkness.

"Well, Reinhardt?" he queried, surveying the damage, "Are you trying to ruin your eyesight, or is this ambience for atmosphere's sake? 'I wait here at the boundaries of dream All shadow-wrapped'?"

Von Seydlitz raised his head slightly, his arms crossed across his chest. "Who said that line? Goethe?"

"Gaiman. Latter-20th Century English artisan-scribe." Von Mellenthin dodged around the misaligned pew, gracefully stepping around the debris of hymnals and Eucharists. "Did he put up this much of a fight on his own, or was all this mess your own handiwork?"

The Colonel shook his head gravely. "Not I. It was like this when I arrived with this piece of filth in tow." Von Seydlitz nodded his head towards the semi-conscious form of the would-be assassin.

Von Mellenthin stepped up beside his foster brother to survey the tableau. "Hmmm, any notion as to whom would be crude enough to make a battlefield out of your humble lair?"

"Negative. There is no physical evidence as to the identity of the perpetrator or perpetrators, but they were reasonably thorough in their scope. The entire cathedral has been tossed about, as though the guilty were searching for something very specific but had no idea as to its whereabouts". The other man's grey eyes slitted in concentration. "There is a trace scent lingering throughout the building, familiar though unidentifiable. I imagine its endurance was compounded by frustration."

Von Mellenthin smiled; he had noted it, too. "Then I trust they didn't find what they sought?"

"That would seem to be the case," von Seydlitz rested his hand on the bare altar and patted it serenely. "Your prize awaits your attention."

Von Mellenthin rubbed his hands together. "Yes, yes, of course." He walked past von Seydlitz, briefly grasping the Colonel's elbow with a hand in a friendly gesture before coming to a halt in front of the captive. "Not wholly undamaged, I see."

Von Seydlitz had been thorough himself. The false priest was upside-down, naked and trussed like a deer, arms outstretched across the horizontal crossbeam of the massive wooden cross that had stood as the backdrop to the altar. It was easily nine feet across, so von Seydlitz had lashed the assassin's arms to the wood with what looked to be a length of barbed wire, probably originally used to line a Nativity scene to keep people from groping the statues. Following that, von Seydlitz had run another length of wire through the assassin's Achilles tendons and hung him from the support strut that had held the cross originally; with his legs strung together, the assassin appeared to be the new cross, albeit an upside-down one. Rivulets of blood streaked down the man's pain-filled face, but he remained silent.

Von Mellenthin leaned in very close; his face inches from his attempted killer's face, noting the eyelids clenched shut and inhaling the scent of fear. "He's not dead yet, is he?"

"Not that I am aware of. He was quite vigorous up until his capture. His limbs are broken, but he is otherwise unharmed beyond the lacerations." Von Seydlitz did not exaggerate.

"I'm sure he was," hissed von Mellenthin into the false priest's face. The man's eyelids fluttered almost imperceptibly, and the General grabbed the man's face in a hand that more resembled a claw. "Wake thyself, scum. You have _much_ to fucking answer for!"

The priest's eyes blinked open rapidly, trying to focus and clear the blood from the lids. The man could not stop a gasp of shock as he was greeted by the inverted face of von Mellenthin, teeth white in a shark's smile and eyes full of palpable hatred.

"Oh, yes, little holy man, I'm quite hale and hearty still," answered von Mellenthin to the unspoken question, "which means you have unfortunately failed in your mission and have been caught in the act of the attempt. You're going to die in a terrifyingly bad way, so you had might as well answer the questions I pose now and save yourself needlessly suffering any longer than absolutely necessary."

The priest tried to spit, but only succeeded at drooling blood and saliva up his own nose. Von Mellenthin's grip on the man's face tightened until he could feel the cheekbones come within a gram of break pressure, and then backed down. "I knew you would grasp the logic. Let's start with the basics: who are you, who hired or sent you, and why did you even presume to believe you had a hope in heaven or hell of succeeding?"

--------------------------------------

Erik stopped and shuddered suddenly, prompting de la Somme to stop as well, a worried expression pasted all over his face. "Hey, you okay, buddy?"

The boy looked at him, and de la Somme could read the emotions in the green eyes easily; in fact, a blind man could have read them easily. Erik pointed over at the cathedral where the three mobile suits knelt. "In there."

De la Somme followed the finger, and then his face faulted into a grimace. "Yeah, figured that was it." Erik had already been through one rough event tonight, having to part from the rest of his brethren as per von Mellenthin's nebulous plan to cheat Axis of its prize and still get what he wanted from Haman Kahn. Whatever his two foster brothers were doing to the assassin inside, de la Somme wanted no direct part in it. Inasmuch as he was a product of New Koenigsberg, he knew this was something his brothers were far more adept at than he was, and he was on a tighter schedule. He reached out and wrapped an arm around Erik's trembling shoulders. "'S okay, let's just get to the suit, get warm, and go swimming. We'll leave this town and all the bad stuff behind us, even though there was some good stuff, too. The food's gonna be crap for a little while, and we might smell a bit bad when we get to where we gotta go, but it'll all be worth it once we get outta here. Sound good?"

Erik nodded mutely, and then stiffened. A keening wail was barely audible within the rush of the wind around them that blew errant flakes of snow over and around them. Wide-eyed and trembling, Erik whispered harshly: "Do you know what they're doing to him in there?"

The ace met green eyes with his, unflinching. "Yeah, I got a pretty good idea. Can't say I blame 'em, though, the guy did shoot him."

The NewType child bit his lower lip. "I can _feel_ them! I can feel what they're _doing_ to him!" His voice had the plaintive tone that bespoke a horror so profound it could not be put into words. The cold-reddened cheeks suddenly went so pale they were almost transparent. "Oh my _god_. . ."

De la Somme winced, cursed himself roundly for his choice of parking spaces, and sighed, suddenly feeling more tired now than he had in a long time. Chasing the fake priest had taken a lot of energy out of him, and he had been relieved to see the Foxe twins and von Seydlitz arrive to help him. It had not been so much the length of the chase as having to pursue on the icy cobblestone streets of Hameln, dodge and weave through the fleeing crowds, and keep the priest from putting a bullet into him, all at the same time. Exhausting, it was, but not nearly as taxing as watching the eight-year old suffer the empathic onslaught of the would-be killer's torment. Erik had explained that places of faith also had power of a sort, and it left him open to the feelings generated by the people who frequented them. That was apparently what was happening right now.

De la Somme knelt down, feeling the street try and suck what was left of his body heat out of his knee, and wrapped his arms around Erik, rubbing the boy's back soothingly. "Listen, kiddo, I know this stinks, but we're almost there. Can you hang on for me? Once we're in the _Gouf_, we're golden, and you can cry, crash out, whatever you wanna do. I'll put some tunes on and everything'll be okay, okay?"

The body he held was immobile; he felt like he was hugging a tree. Erik gave a sniffle, and then spoke through clenched teeth. "How can you love them when they do things like this? How can you love anything that does things like this?"

His own voice a whisper, de la Somme closed his eyes, pained. "No choice, buddy. I don't know any other way to be about this. I can't hate them, not when they saved me, or for being what they are. They're my boss and my family. It's not like they drown kittens every day or nothin'. . .not recently, anyway." Now he was the one trembling, wishing the boy he held was one of his own sons for the millionth time since Heidelberg. "But I gotta admit," he swallowed a lump he did not realize had formed, "this friggin' _sucks_."

He felt the boy's arms come up around his neck. "Aren't you supposed to be the one comforting _me_?" asked Erik, voice sounding a little less miserable but not by much.

De la Somme laughed brokenly and picked the boy up into his protesting arms. "Funny how things work sometimes, huh?" He resumed his walk towards the parked _Gouf Custom_, wondering if the harried soul he carried in his arms was being saved or cursed by leaving Hameln with the Piper instead of staying behind.

They could hear the screaming until the hatch finally, mercifully shut that cruel world out.

------------------------------------

Von Mellenthin pulled a blood-coated finger out of the mess he had made, then pushed the hanging priest with an equally-bloodied hand, making the whole cross-like contraption swing and twist. "I must say, whoever trained you knew their work well, priest. Either you've got more tenacity than a dozen people, or you really _don't_ know your name."

The man moaned piteously, looking vastly worse after a mere five minutes of excruciation. Von Mellenthin casually reached over and stopped the swinging motion, crouching until he was face-to-face with his would-be killer. "As much fun as it would be to shatter your mind, body, and soul, I simply don't have the time to spare, so I'm going to skip the questioning phase and go straight to the part where you die horribly. I hope you'll forgive the rudeness." He extended his arm again, equally casually, and grasped an errant piece of dangling meat on the assassin's leg, pulling it off of the bone with a peeling motion and dropping it on the cathedral floor with a dull wet _plop_. "Oh, my kingdom for a carrot stripper."

He stepped away from the moaning man, like an artist judging a draft work. Noting the priest's lips moving in a steady pattern, von Mellenthin leaned back in a little closer to listen. "Prayers? They cannot save you any more than they have ever saved anyone from anything."

The priest's lips continued to move in the midst of his agony, breaths barely audible, but von Mellenthin could just make out the words. " _La plus jeune avait l'pied léger. Nous irons jouer sur le bord de l'eau. La plus jeune avait l'pied léger. Nous irons jouer sur le bord de l'eau. A bord d'la barque elle a sauté. Nous irons jouer. Sur le bord de l'eau. Nous irons jouer dans l'île. Sur le bord de l'eau. Nous irons jouer dans l'île._"

"Oh ho." Von Mellenthin smiled, grabbing the man by what hair remained on his scalp and jerking the entire contraption closer. "Something from your deep, dark past, is it? A little French ditty to take your mind away from your pain?" He leaned closer, whispering. "Do you want to be let in on a little secret? I'll let you in on a secret." The General clamped his iron grip over the false priest's mouth with his free hand, silencing him. "Listen well, before you die: even if there is a god who would care about someone like you, it won't matter. The greatest powers of humanity have caged us, exiled us, tried to starve us out, failed to kill us, and with every generation we've grown stronger. We dominated half this world, built a greater empire than any in history ever had before, and we can do it again and better next time because the sheep you let rule you lack the power to finish the job without having to resort to the same tactics they publicly abhor. They mistakenly fear the opinions of the mob more than they fear Zeon, and that is their fatal error. If you thought the Devil was the source of all evil, imagine the Devil's works in the hands of far more capable Man. Especially Man with no regard for the simpering morality that you've tainted the world with for centuries, willing to take that step no one else would dare for fear of the wrath of a god who long since stopped paying attention."

Von Mellenthin's tongue reached out and licked a spot of blood from the assassin's face. "When your god burns in Hell along with you and your _species_," he purred, "you will spend eternity lamenting your failure, while my kind puts humanity under its yoke for the lifespan of this universe and any other we choose to occupy. You have seen the beginning of the end for _homo sapiens_ as you know it. In the future I will design and craft from my labors, I will ensure that this moment is studied in history, and all creation will either praise your failure as the greatest moment of all Time, or curse your failure as the final chance to save the old world from the inevitable. There will be no escape from your mind or your pain then." Von Mellenthin straightened, wiping his hands on his trousers. He barely felt the bullets anymore, and he knew the wounds had closed. Time was of the essence now; in mere hours he would be in dire circumstances. He turned his back on the assassin and walked over to von Seydlitz, who watched from his seat on the altar, face typically stony.

"I do not think he really knows his name," commented von Seydlitz, grey eyes burning brightly as he stared at the living wreckage, nostrils flaring at the scents of blood and pain.

"He doesn't, but it's not important anyway. The Titans did not send him and that much is certain. This viper's stink suggests this is Camael Balke's ilk, or someone like him. Meddlesome Vatican scum poking their noses into things that would lop those proboscises off with their own hypocrisies; their time will come, all of them, and I'll take great pleasure in crucifying a Catholic every kilometer of the world until I've circumnavigated the globe with their screams in an unbroken chain. They will learn the price for defying our Will." Von Mellenthin stopped next to his brother and stared at him, smiling in that maddening 'I know something you don't know' way. "You have a problem, Reinhardt."

Von Seydlitz tore his eyes from the ravaged assassin and met von Mellenthin's gaze, quirking an eyebrow. Von Mellenthin reached out and patted von Seydlitz's cheek as he had in the _Bier_ tent. "I didn't forget, you see. I know, and _remember_."

The sharp intake of breath from the touch was enough to confirm von Mellenthin's suspicions. The General shook his head. "How you've lasted _this_ long is amazing, brother of mine. I know it's your Time, and has been for days now. I'd have gone berserk by this point, but your level of control is truly astounding."

The taller man gritted his teeth. "Antares told you?" he accused.

Von Mellenthin snorted. "No need for that. I have a nose and a very good memory. Between them, I don't forget important dates." The General grinned even more widely. "I'll bet he forgot, though, didn't he?"

The other man's jaw was agape, and von Mellenthin popped the Colonel's chin with the back of his hand, smirking as the mouth clamped shut. "You know, Reinhardt, it wouldn't be prudent to leave you in a condition anything less than your best before we depart for our final victory."

Von Seydlitz cleared his throat and swallowed; von Mellenthin could smell the phermonones roiling off of the Colonel, the man was practically _humming_ with them. "There is. . .some logic to that, yes."

"Yes," agreed von Mellenthin happily, moving so close to von Seydlitz until he was practically nuzzling the taller man's neck, reveling in the torture he knew he was inflicting, "I thought you would see it my way. Then surely by now you must realize how precarious a problem you've been having, what with no one available to mate with, correct?"

"Correct." The word might as well have been grated out of von Seydlitz's jaw. "Our deal has left potentials a bit scarce of late."

Von Mellenthin reached out and put an arm around von Seydlitz's shoulder, feeling the tremendous heat radiating from him. The gesture drew von Seydlitz off of his seat on the altar, and the General slowly turned them until they faced the dangling assassin. The expression on von Mellenthin's face shifted from contented happiness to a visage of hatred, and he tightened his arm around the taller man's neck in a headlock even as his eyes latched onto the assassin and stayed there.

"Don't you see it, Reinhardt?" purred von Mellenthin quietly into his brother's ear. "Don't you see why I had this offal swine brought here alive? Don't you see why I pushed your movement time back? Don't you see that _this_," he pointed at the false priest with his free hand, smelling von Seydlitz's sweat and burying his face in his brother's hair, "is _not_ a resident of Hameln?"

Von Seydlitz, usually unflappable and resolute, was vibrating against him uncontrollably, and von Mellenthin could literally _feel_ waves of need flowing over himself, coming off of his brother's gene-tortured body. He grinned wolfishly in von Seydlitz's hair, squeezing tighter without worry; by this point, von Seydlitz would not be able to detect his injury or how badly he had been wounded. The stink of the priest's blood would permeate von Seydlitz's heightened senses. He could tell his brother was about to snap from the pressure, and a particularly primal piece of himself wondered how long his proud subordinate would endure before he simply fell apart from the strain. _How long could you last, Reinhardt? Dare I haul you away before granting you the release you desperately crave? What lengths would you go to just to keep up the charade of control when it's everything you are just to keep from screaming aloud?_

He spoke into the writhing ball of near-frantic desire he held tightly, his voice a bestial growl even as his blue-green eyes stared at the would-be assassin with a hate so pure it was scathing. He made his choice. "Make him _suffer_, Reinhardt. Use this roach for whatever you need, but be _swift_. Time is short. One hour, and then make your movement. I will await you there."

The Colonel was practically weeping from the chance at relief. "D-Dietrich. . .?" he stammered quietly.

Von Mellenthin shushed him and released him from the headlock, kissing the top of his burning head and pushing at him with a hand. "_Swiftly_, Reinhardt. Make a rag of him, expend him, and join me. Tonight, we leave this place to become the trolls beneath the Grimm brothers' bridge, and it would not do to be late! The Gateway awaits us! Leave whatever is left for the Titans to find among the wreckage of this _house_," he spat on the floor as he walked towards the doors, to leave von Seydlitz to his work, "of God!"

As the doors swung open and the cold air blew in, von Mellenthin stepped outside and into the night. Before the doors closed, he heard von Seydlitz's hungry snarl echo through the cathedral's buttresses and off its walls, and as the great wooden flaps closed with their heavy _thuds_, he heard the assassin's choked screams begin anew, and the General laughed. He laughed his way all the way down the steps and into the icy courtyard; he laughed as he passed by the horrified faces that had gathered around the cathedral, drawn by the screams and curiosity; he laughed until the streets around rang with the sound of it, until its dissonance returned a sound that was monstrous and inhuman, a howl more than a laugh.

The _Zaku_ _Hi-Mo_ stood, looming over the kneeling form of von Seydlitz's _Gouf Custom_, patiently awaiting the return of its master. Von Mellenthin's war machine, the lion rampant of Hessen gleaming on its breast, raised a massive steel fist at the steeple of the cathedral, clenched as though declaring war.

"**Not Thy will,**" thundered over the grounds, transmitted by the loudspeaker to half of the city, "**but MINE!**" The _Zaku_ took a step backwards, spun on a heel in a precise about-face, and walked away from the cathedral as if never turning to face it ever again.

**Titans Line (West), Niedersachsen, Central Europe**

**November 24, 0087**

"Oh, enough, Garrett," bemoaned Tizard as they walked into 2nd Battalion's TOC tent. "I've already forgiven you, so please stop bleating excuses for your behavior." He glared at the two soldiers who were inside the tent, packing away the most nonessential gear for the shift west. "Leave us alone. You can finish later."

The Titans Captain stammered as the soldiers left, the tent flapping closed behind them. "B-But I thought you---?"

"Stop doing that, too. After tonight, it's become very apparent you aren't good at it. So I'm going to stop forcing you to try." Tizard swung a leg over a plastic folding chair, and in a un-Tizardlike fashion, seated himself so that he straddled the back, arms folded over the chair's back support. "Still, I do have to thank you for proving several points with your one-man assault on the enemy stronghold."

"You do, sir?" Sajer did not try and sit, which scored him one point in his favor.

"Oh, yes, indeed." Tizard smiled wanly. "As much trouble as you've been tonight, you did succeed with some intelligence gathering, and it is for that reason I forgive you. Your miserable performance tonight has revealed several things about our enemy and their disposition, and they are things I will factor in."

He raised a hand and closed all but one of his fingers. "First, we know that in spite of the time that's passed under siege, the photo surveillance of their vigilance is proven accurate, and they aren't dropping their guard." A second finger extended. "Second, we know that the technology the majority of their surviving mobile suits possess is ineffective against our new frontline units, by which I refer to the _Barzam_ and I presume the _Marasai_ as well; in spite of the thrashing your machine received, it took a beam saber to actually do you any kind of real harm, and Zeon came late to the table with beam weaponry during the War," he noted Sajer's wince at the mention, "Third, it's apparent that we are going to have to catch them on open terrain, as storming Hameln will cost us severely in manpower and material given the level of piloting skill they displayed as compared to our own relatively novice abilities; we may have them in numbers and technology, but they possess a diabolical talent for destruction on hemmed-in ground. Defensively they will cost us dearly, and we may not be able to afford the loss of forces in Europe as the line of defense against the Karaba terrorists and AEUG scum, much less, God forbid, Axis, on this end of the Atlantic. Fourth," he smiled amicably, "he's nervous about something."

Sajer frowned in confusion. "Who's nervous?"

"The 'Lion'." Tizard smacked a hand on the back of the chair, long fingers cuffed in black running over the plastic as he stroked the spot he slapped. "It's really elementary, Garrett. Why else would his demand be for us to pull back instead of, say, forcing you to surrender your advanced suit for their use?"

Sajer shook his head, not seeing the logic. "My suit," he rasped, "was already damaged by then. What fucking good would a damaged suit be to them?"

Tizard clucked his tongue. "Because Vladimir Margul, a man historically reputed for being a bloodthirsty butcher, couldn't kill you by himself. By all rights, I should be writing to your next of kin and preparing to eulogize you. The sheer curiosity should have been an unspeakable temptation, but he didn't opt for it. What's more, the option he did take is one he chose only because they're hiding something. Why else would they force us to drop our surveillance net during the movement if they weren't hiding something? No, Garrett, von Mellenthin is up to something devious, and it's something that he couldn't do with us sitting there watching. So he did what he's always done and used you as the excuse to get us to drop our watch, if only for long enough to accomplish whatever it is he's planning."

The Major's fingers drummed restlessly on the chair's back. "Tacitus wrote about a speech the Roman general Germanicus once gave to his men before battling Arminius' union of German tribes at Idisiaviso, where Germanicus is said to have told his men that the German stature was impressive and powerful in a quick attack, but that they could not stand being hurt. The 'Lion' and his pride have been hurt, whether he shows it or not. Steinbaum hurt them, and this siege has hurt them, and now the knowledge that they face an opponent with superior technology that their weapons may not save them from is hurting them. In short," the fingers stopped drumming, "whatever it is he's planning to do, he has to do it soon, before he meets Arminius' fate and is killed by one of his rival chieftains or his unit's morale simply dies out. If his past record holds true, timing is everything for his machinations."

Sajer's face turned downwards. "You think he'll try to break out? Eleven suits against a whole battalion?"

"No, I think he'll run, and he'll do it while we're not watching, which is why I want the movement done in less than four hours. I will not allow the Zeon to slip the net after they've forced us to keep away from the catch for this long." Tizard's tiny little smile remained in place. "I do wonder about this man with a pistol dressed as a priest von Mellenthin referred to. Captain Balke seems to be sticking his hand in where it's not wanted again."

"You think it was him?"

"His contact with the Catholic Church in Germany is a matter of record, though I don't know specifics beyond that he spent some time in their care as a youth. Can't see how much of an impact it made, because he spent five times as long in juvenile detention in spite of it all. If Balke isn't involved with it, then this might very well be an isolated local incident as von Mellenthin said it was. I don't believe that, however, not without speaking to our miserly Federation colleague first. He'll lie, but he's not as good at it as he thinks he is."

He noted Sajer's continuous look of dejection. "Oh, stop that, Captain. You won't be facing the Zeon in a damaged suit, though you certainly warrant that level of punishment for your failure to obey instructions."

"My suit will take days to repair and recalibrate," pointed out Sajer in a harsh whisper.

"No," Tizard shook his head, "you'll be taking the _Marasai_. I will pilot the _Barzam_ from here on out."

Sajer's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. "Wha--? _Why?_"

The Major's smile was almost reptilian in its cunning. "The challenge of it. Besides, I would hate for von Mellenthin to think I was not interested in a fair fight, or do you think I'm not capable of being combat effective in a suit with one hand? I'll do it for the thrill of the ride, Captain; any other reasons are my own to entertain."

Tizard was going to continue, but the tent flap opened at Captain Palaccio stuck his head in. "Sir, Saber Main is calling on the Brigade push, asking to speak with you directly. Something about a sleazy Federation officer and his driver they just stopped at the Aerzen interchange. Says he's here to see you, sir."

Tizard's smile grew harder, but his eyebrows rose as he met Sajer's gaze.

**Hameln, Niedersachsen, Central Europe**

**November 24, 0087**

Reinhardt von Seydlitz managed to squeeze his dripping _Gouf Custom_ into the narrow space between the prone forms of von Mellenthin's _Zaku Hi-Mo_ and Weissdrake's _Gelgoog Commander_ with centimeters on each side to spare, water sloshing out of the limb actuators and running over the camouflaged armor to puddle on the floor. He locked the suit down and shut off the controls, then popped the hatch manually and stood, watching the clamshell doors close above his head, bathing the space in blackness until the loading lights flickered on. He knew there would be very little power at this point and time was limited, so he did not dawdle as he walked or hopped over the supine mobile suits until he reached the ladder on the far side, bag in hand. The lights cut off as soon as he reached the first rung, but it was of little concern. He climbed the ladder, eager to escape the sickening smell of oily tar that permeated the space where his suit now lay. He felt himself again, the terrible pressure that had tortured him for days now gone, and while it looked and smelled as though he had bathed in a slaughterhouse, the end result had been eminently worth the effort. He closed the door behind him and made his way through the cramped hallways towards his destination. He had been the last to arrive.

This piece of von Mellenthin's scheme had taken some explanation. It relied on a singular albeit multifaceted premise: that the _Zaku_ spewing Minovsky radiation in the center of their half of Hameln and the dense German winter cloud coverage, coupled with their foes' obvious reluctance to tempt van Allen's _Gelgoog Cannon_ into an antiaircraft role and the Titans' grounding of all civilian flights over or around the besieged town, meant that the Titans had insufficient aerial coverage over the entire town. This idea, when viewed from the reports they had generated from the audio/visual recordings the Peeper remote reconnaissance vehicle had given them from the 54th's 1st Battalion TOC daily briefings, reckoned that the Titans were relying solely on ground-based surveillance of the Zeon positions in Hameln's east side, and were thus constrained into a two-dimensional view of the area. In regards to the position the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ had chosen to weather out the siege, all of that put together meant there was a 400 meter-long blind spot sitting right in the center of the Weser river in the form of a man-made island called the _Werder_, which ran the length of the river between the _Muensterbruecke_ and the _Thiewallbruecke_ bridges, covered the entirety of the _Sudetenstrasse_ and most of the Promenade, and was easily observable from the Zeon side of the river from the _Pfortmuehle_ manse that was on the riverbank. The island connected to the mainland via a single road, the _Inselstrasse_, that fed directly onto the _Muensterbruecke_ bridge. It was also the place where Margul's _Kaempfer_ had been stationed just prior to the Titans' attack.

From the far side of the river, where the closest Titans position was located, the entire thing appeared to be one contiguous piece of riverside property. They could not see that the Weser flowed _around_ the _Werder_, between the island and the _Pfortmuehle_, without aerial reconnaissance or an astute map and sharp eyes. It was on that little branch of the Weser, one day prior to the arrival of the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ in Hameln, that Sergeant Wolfram La Vesta and his two 186th Amphibious Battalion cohorts found a particular covered quay that would not be shown on any map, and as per von Mellenthin's instructions when they had divulged that discovery, they had slipped _RMS Fafnir_, formerly known as _RMS Ruhrort_, into that same quay and begun Phase Two of their directives.

The time had come to leave, and with the exception of the several days it took La Vesta and his soldiers to make the ship ready, the way out of this mess had been in place the entire time. That von Mellenthin had managed to hide the ship and La Vesta's men for the better part of a week before letting his battalion commanders know was a pretty good piece of internal subterfuge, and the surprise that the revelation produced was quickly replaced by a sudden sense of superiority over the small army of Titans that for all intents and purposes had the upper hand in this arrangement. It was even better when taken with the knowledge that von Mellenthin had known about all of this back at the Taunus, just before their linkup with von Seydlitz and the running battle with the airborne Titans elements that brought them here.

Now, circumstances had worked again in their favor, as the Titans had been forced to drop their watchfulness to fulfill von Mellenthin's demand that they relocate. _Ruhrort_ was now free to launch, carrying the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ away from their enemies not by land, but by water, courtesy of the 186th 'Deep Dwellers' and the Weser river. Von Mellenthin had given the Titans four hours; they would be leaving with nearly two hours to spare.

He climbed the last set of steps and slid open the door, finding the room full of Zeon soldiers. De la Somme glanced furtively at him, probably still anticipating him being victim to his Time. Von Mellenthin smiled at the state he was in; he looked like he had been rolled through a meat-packing plant. "Everything set, _Oberst_?"

Von Seydlitz spared the time to look at every face in the room, pausing longest on the face of the NewType child. De la Somme saw it and put a hand on the boy's shoulder, even as fear flickered across the too-green eyes. _Six left behind and one to show off to Haman Kahn. Will she not be upset at the loss?_ Too bad for her. He wondered what this construct of a life-form would think about New Koenigsberg and what they had in store for him upon his arrival; it did not matter anyway. The child was a toy, one the bio-scholars were going to reduce to his component amino acids to decipher for their own uses. What de la Somme thought about that piece of the plan he was not sure, but it would ultimately be irrelevant in any instance; it was part of the deal the children had made with von Mellenthin, and not even the most violent tantrum de la Somme could muster would sway that Will. The contract was sealed now.

He would explain to de la Somme why he should put his fears to rest later. He was not in the mood to air out his laundry in front of the whole unit. "Yes, _Herr General_. My suit is locked down and the doors are sealed shut. We are ready for departure on your order." Von Seydlitz noted the blood under his fingernails and wondered if he would be able to shower. He doubted it, at least not yet.

"Good, then we're all here. Tomorrow, first thing, if you haven't seen the gun camera footage that _Kommandant_ Margul should have uploaded to everyone's FBCB2 systems, you should prioritize that to the top of the list. It will prove very instructive about what it is we may have to face if this goes badly, and while Margul accorded himself well during the fracas, even he admits some doubts as to our suits' weapons effectiveness against this form of armor. I want you to go over the entire sequence with a refined interest and concentrate on ways to exploit whatever weaknesses can be found in their new design philosophy. Any tactic we can develop helps us and hurts them, and I am all for hurting them, gentlemen."

Von Mellenthin's smile would have given the sunrise a run for its money. "Mister McKenna, would you be so kind? Set course north by northwest towards Bremerhaven, make speed for ten knots. Blackout ops, no internal lights or battery power. Rig for silent running, _Oberleutnant_. Nice and quiet, we would not want to be noticed at this stage."

"Aye, sir," grinned McKenna's ruddy face as he cranked the old 'Gertrude' submarine phone that he had La Vesta's people install in _Ruhrort_'s conning tower. As he spoke, the rest of the Zeon wandered off of the bridge in ones and twos, until there were just a handful of officers remaining.

"I don't know 'bout you cats, but I'm calling it a night. Wake me up when we get to Bremen, 'kay? C'mon, Erik, let's rack out." The ace draped an arm over the boy's narrow shoulders and led him off the bridge, but the child still seemed to be the loneliest thing von Seydlitz had ever seen. He wondered briefly why this was surprising; the Federation's weapon was now truly alone, cut off from his crèche-mates and still prisoner of the enemy he was designed to fight.

As the door opened, the two shared identical yawns, and then the door closed behind them; von Seydlitz made a mental note of that, though he could not say why immediately. The bridge lights flickered off, all except for the eerie blue blackout lights that illuminated instruments and little else. They, too, would be cut off soon.

The ship gave a minute lurch that von Seydlitz felt in his knees, and then it silently began to move forward and out of the quay. No fireworks lit their passage. He could detect nothing to suggest the presence of either la Vesta's _Hygogg_ or the two _Z'Gok Es_ beneath the murky waters of the Weser.

_This may work. Please make this work_. His thoughts as he stared into the darkness were interrupted when a hand touched him on the arm, and he glanced away from the window and to the darkened face of von Mellenthin.

"I'm going to catch some sleep as well, Reinhardt. You should do the same; the next two days are critical and you'll need all your strength. Besides," the other man sniffed, then smiled devilishly in the blue light, "you stink."

"I will be there as soon as we pass Hessisch-Oldendorf. You go ahead. _Oberleutnant_ McKenna will maintain the conn until the Rinteln turn, and then it will be up to _Hauptfeld_ La Vesta."

The General grasped his arm in a friendly gesture. "Then I'll leave you to it. Try not to wake me for at least ten hours, please."

"Done. _Guten nacht, Generalmajor_." It dawned on von Seydlitz that for the first time since Steinbaum, the plan was actually on track. Everything was precisely how it was supposed to be. He actually had to stifle a chuckle at the thought that they had been flying off the seat of their pants even as they had spent the week sitting on their behinds.

"_Guten morgen, Oberst_," corrected von Mellenthin. "It's pushing five in the morning. Get to bed within the hour, Reinhardt, that's an order."

"Yes, sir." A final squeeze on the arm and his foster brother was gone, still wrapped in the now-ragged greatcloak. It seemed to von Seydlitz that the wear and tear it had endured tonight made its majesty somewhat diminished, but not that of its wearer.

The door slid shut behind von Mellenthin, whom he knew would head for the captain's cabin. For an hour, he and McKenna stood the watch, trading a night-vision set of binoculars every now and again to scan around the banks of the river. No Titans impeded their path, and none were seen that they could detect within the limited range of the binoculars. By the time they made the turn northward just past Rinteln, crossing the border between Lower Saxony and North Rhine-Westphalia in the process, _Ruhrort_ was clear and away, and all its passengers sailed on the ship of dreams.

All save one.

**Aerzen, Niedersachsen, Central Europe**

**November 24, 0087**

Tizard waved a hand through the smoke-filled air as he entered Brigade TOC, Sajer behind him. At the map table, the slouched form of Federation Captain Camael Balke sat, casually smoking what looked to be his fourteenth cigarette since his arrival, judging by how many butts had been ground onto the floor beneath the table. He had apparently not shaved in days, bathed in at least as long, or slept for even longer. Balke shot him a toothy smile, and then turned his rheumy eyes towards Sajer, and Tizard noted the sudden soldier-like cast they grew as soon as they met Sajer's; all traces of the scum Balke had become in his lifetime vanished beneath the surface of what could only be a competent professional, and Tizard wondered why Balke refused to simply give in to what anyone could see in these circumstances was a blessed destiny. The man was not a fool, but his lack of discipline and professionalism was the only crusade he would fight for.

The Titan Captain growled quietly, enough so that only Tizard heard him, and then spun on a heel and stormed out, slamming the door shut behind him. Apparently satisfied with the result, Balke leaned back, and the coolness of his eyes suddenly melted back into his usual dismal softness. "Surprised to see me here, Major?"

"No," Tizard replied levelly, "I'm surprised to see you here free to roam about at will when I left instructions for you to be placed in chains should you ever show your face in Aerzen again. That you are unfettered does not follow in accordance with my orders." He shot Volkyr a look, but the Brigade S-3 was busy coordinating movement on the radio and did not notice.

"Don't blame them. I pulled a little rank at your checkpoint and then threatened to bite my tongue off to keep from telling you anything if your droids got in my way. They seemed pretty eager to keep my tongue where it is. Might be you were expecting me?"

Tizard chose not to answer that. "I'll presume that the mobile suit we've intercepted just south of here is also part of your entourage, Captain?"

"Yeah, that'd be Brak and the Missus Lieutenant Dyson in her fixed-up battlewagon. I thought it'd be smart to have another suit before begging to get let back into the club." Balke stubbed out his cigarette on the wall behind himself, then dropped the butt to the floor and stamped on it with a dirty boot heel. "Well, you like my way of asking nice?"

Tizard sat down in front of the table. "In case you failed to notice, though I know your driver did not, I have plenty of mobile suits of my own already. One obsolete Federation GM is not solving any sort of deficiency in my MTOE."

Balke frowned. "No? Oh, you thought the _suit_ was the peace offering. No, I was talking about _me_, Major. I'm the peace offering."

Tizard grinned that tiny grin of his. "I see. And with this package of a deal just so happens to come an obsolete Federation GM, its pilot, and a clump of ragtag remnants of the former Federation command group for Europe, the same Federation command group for Europe that allowed the Zeon to fester like an abscess in their very midst until it blew Bonn up around them. I don't believe this cup of cold tea has enough sweeteners for me to put it to my lips and sip from its contents, Captain. Get out of my TOC, we have a movement phase to execute."

"Whoa, hold on there, Colonel Klink, you're forgetting one big lump in all of that," Balke grabbed another chair and plopped it down in front of the map table, on the far side of Tizard. "With me, you get access into some of the juiciest intel sources a guy can find, including the Church."

"The Church?" Tizard knew this already, but it was too much fun making Balke wheedle what could have been his already by Federation status of forces agreement writ if he had just taken the time to read and cite it. "What do I need from a bunch of neutral religious dogmatists that I can't get out of the locals?"

"The locals don't like you, Major, any more than they like the supermonkeys. You guys have dirt all over your faces thanks to what you've pulled in Space, Southeast Asia, and countless other locales all over the globe. Who're you that they should trust you enough to want to have seen or heard anything you want to know?" Balke leaned closer. "But people _do_ talk to their priests, and they'll talk to me."

"Why would anyone want to talk to you? You're nobody."

"I'm not a Titan, and here in Germany that makes me somebody. Look, Mellenthin hasn't made a lot of friends here thanks to some of his antics, and neither have you for backing down every time he says 'boo'. The locals don't trust you, and that makes them scared and they'll clam up rather than suck the wrath of whichever side wins if they pick wrong. Back in the War, everyone and their dog knew that unless forced, Mellenthin wouldn't attack German soil, especially after Bayreuth; now, after having shot the shit out of Kassel, Heidelberg, and Mannheim, no one knows what he'll do next. He's not playing by the rules anymore. There are bets in every bar between Koeln and Stuttgart as to whether or not he'll raze Hameln before he leaves. There's others hedging bets over if you'll do it after this is all done for aiding and abetting them, even if it was under gunpoint and under duress. The third party is betting you'll _let_ Mellenthin nuke this town because you really don't give a flying fuck. No one _wants_ to talk to your people, Major."

Tizard's eyes narrowed. "And you think that because my associates in Space sinned, I should have to bear that cross?"

"You already are, buck-o, even if you can't feel the nails. Half of everybody here thinks you're either a monster making a list and checking it twice for who's going to get it when this is all done, or they think you're a chickenshit pushover who's too busy bending over to every demand Mellenthin throws at you to fight even when he's not using civilians as a shield. No one knows what game you're playing, but everyone's afraid to see what's in your hand."

Tizard was silent, so Balke continued: "I can't give you every card he's holding, Major, but I can give you a pretty good idea what kind of hand he's trying to make."

_Wrong game, Captain. You're trying to play poker with a chess set. Checkers would have done you better_. "Perhaps you have a point, but make no mistake," Tizard fixed his stare on a spot on Balke's forehead, right between his eyes, "I will not tolerate my unit being slighted by any sort of taint of cowardice. I choose the time and place for my battles, not the German public or the junta in Dakar. I am a Titan, and the commander of the defense of Europe. I have the wherewithal and authority to pick my fights where I see fit, and while my honoring an ancient code of sanctuary may seem to others to be weakness, I assure you it is not. Hameln is a poor venue for an armored battle, and one that would cost countless unnecessary deaths. I will not play into von Mellenthin's hands in full view of the media and make him a martyr for anyone's cause. When everything is right, he and his irregulars will be neutralized in such a fashion that they will gain no glory from it. I dislike being thought of as craven, but I refuse to allow any sort of Zeon hero worship to perpetuate from the leavings of this campaign."

Balke did not blink. "That's cute and all, but I would've shot him down on the bridge if Assclown had given me the opportunity, honor be fucked. There's way more at stake here than looking good for the cameras, Major, and you know that as well as I do."

"Maybe I do, Captain," Tizard reached a hand across the table. "Welcome back, Mister Balke."

Balke did not grip his hand any longer than he had to. "Thrilled."

"As you should be; you are working with Titans again." Tizard let Balke's clammy hand go with almost visible relief. "So, Captain, anything you'd like to confess about a priest with a pistol causing havoc in Hameln?"

Balke pursed his lips, then shook his head wearily. "Not really. Anything you wanna confess about why Assclown's suit has to jerk off lefty now?"

Tizard had nothing to hide. "Captain Sajer had a run-in with Vladimir Margul on the bridge. His mobile suit lost its hand in the battle to a beam saber."

"Assclown can't take the 'Demon' on his best day. Margul's a sick piece of work. Your boy's lucky to be alive."

"It could have been worse, but this is a new era and times have changed. That situation is rectified, but it has cost us time and area. Von Mellenthin demanded a twelve-kilometer radius between our cordon and his town in exchange for our violating the Sanctuary. I chose the diplomatic route rather than a pitched battle on the banks of the Weser."

Balke rubbed at an eye. "Funny you should mention the river. You know that Kassel's attack choppers still haven't found that third ship?"

"The search continues, I imagine?"

"They've searched the length of the Rhine and come up with nada. Bryton told me that he sent them running willy-nilly through the offshoot waterways and canals capable of supporting a thousand-ton draft barge, but they still haven't come up with shit. Last report had them sweeping the Neckar in case it doubled-back."

"But you have another theory as to where it's gone," concluded Tizard matter-of-factly.

"Yep, just so happens I do." Balke sat back and looked at Tizard, patiently waiting.

Tizard steepled his fingers below his nose, lips pursed against the knuckles. "All right, Captain, earn your place in the clubhouse. I'm listening." And he did, as Balke began to weave a tale that had taken him halfway across Germany and into a glorified nunnery. As he spoke, Tizard's mind began to wander, prompted by Balke's findings, which while they came from wildly different places, made Tizard wonder just how many fingers were stirring the pot of soup called Nemesis. Still, in spite of Balke's apparently hard work and factfinding, Tizard simply did not need anything Balke was giving him. He was ahead of the game already.

Over the last week, his sources had fed him all the bits and pieces he needed to see the big picture without having to rely on the divinations of some washed-up Federation Captain and his pack of buffoons. Nemesis had always and ever had been about a single long-term purpose: getting back to Space, back to Side 3; claim possession by force or duress of the Republic of Zeon using the others from their colony, employ an army with a core comprised of nearly three million humans with an absolute hatred for all things Federation to enlist with Axis to acquire the material to outfit that army, and then finish what the Zavis had begun while Earth was weak and the Titans it was dependant on to protect it from threats from Space were so enmeshed with fighting the AEUG and strife within its own ranks that it would not be able to devote the forces to combat this new enemy. Earth would be more helpless now than it had been during the One-Year War. Tizard imagined it could be worse: at least von Mellenthin knew nothing about Space Command's ultimate plan for the Gryps 2 colony cylinder.

All of that made military sense, in spite of the ostentation. The part that disturbed Tizard's sleep was what would come afterwards. Sajer had reported that when Balke had crashed the European Command group planning meeting, he had said that von Mellenthin and those from his colony had been exiled decades ago for anti-Federation political activism and illegal genetic experimentation. The rest of the story fed directly into Balke's explanation, and that made Tizard exceedingly nervous: when one mouth spoke, it was superstitious nonsense and rumor-spinning; when it was two unrelated mouths saying the same thing, it was truth and even more frightening. Once the Federation was crushed under heel, the victorious eugenicists would spend decades harvesting from Terra and the other colonies, shuffling the species through a thousand tests to determine who was worthy to fit into what category of genetic order. Those found to be acceptable to continue their lineages would do so; the rest would be harvested for what was useful, or cast aside as being unfit to be of use to the species as a whole.

It was a nightmare Tizard had fought the Zeon to prevent when the Contolists had extolled the virtues of Spacenoids above Earthenoids, and he would continue to do so, because unlike his comrades in Space who were blind to the "minor" threat von Mellenthin represented, Tizard knew that to lose in Europe was to lose everything. If anything, this was going to be much worse: Giren Zavi would have just killed everyone who did not fit into his new social order; Dietrich von Mellenthin would not grant them even that much of an escape from what he had in mind. The unsuspecting world they stood on could not conceive of the level of cruelty von Mellenthin planned for them, a prison there would be no escape from for countless generations of what amounted in Tizard's mind to slaves, bound by their very genetic makeups into obedience without question to an entirely different genetic offshoot. Camael Balke knew it, too, and that made the Titans Major and the Federation Captain keepers of the biggest secret yet: that von Mellenthin's Grand Plan had been leaked before he had even reached Hameln. What Balke did not know was that Tizard knew, and that was precisely how Tizard liked it.

To do all that, first von Mellenthin had to go back to Space; Berlin would not get him there, no matter how big a jewel in his crown it would be. Tizard had nurtured the suspicion that the whole Berlin thing was as much nonsense as the biological weapon threat had been; the 10th _Panzerkaempfer_ had maintained a northward drive ever since their initial attack on Heidelberg. If Space was their ultimate destination, then it did not take a genius to reason out the logic of their movement, though there were several possibilities to choose from. Overland meant they would have to face the 54th's firepower, but there were other ways to travel than by foot.

"If I were him, and thank heaven I'm not," spoke Balke into the silence, "I'd go right here."

The Titans Major raised an eyebrow as Balke mashed his nicotine-stained finger onto the map, and the two of them stared at the point the yellow fingernail indicated, confirming what Tizard had told Dewar on _Erebus_ before Balke had even walked into the room.

Tizard shrugged; best to simply feign ignorance and let things go as they would. "By morning, we'll know. Pray you're right, Captain."

"Don't gotta. I already know I am. Still, he's a conniving bastard. Here," his finger slid westward and stopped, "would get him the same thing, if he wanted to go for it."

Tizard almost laughed at the ludicrousness of that notion, but he chose to continue his charade instead. "You're drunk again, aren't you?"

"Out with a bang and not a whimper? You've got to admit it'd be showy enough to matter. Hell, no one's managed it in centuries, especially from this piece of the continent, and it would still get him what he needs to get home." Balke raked a hand through his dirty hair. "It's worth letting them know to be ready, just in case."

Tizard nodded slowly. "Perhaps, but I prefer a more direct approach for interdiction." It would be him having to repeat himself, but it made the game that much more fun and he was no friend to Dewar in any event. "I'll radio the task force and give them their sailing orders."

Balke moved his finger again. "Here's another spot that could work, too. Goddammit, how many boats does Dewar have?"

Tizard frowned. "_Erebus_ is the flagship, a pre-War frigate. He's got a two-suit mobile carrier that's essentially a rigged trawler, and about six other smaller ships of various size and combat capability. There may be others, depending on what your office across the Channel dispatched to reinforce him, if they did anything at all."

"Say then about eight vessels and two mobile suits?" Balke smirked at Tizard's nod. "Against three late-War amphibious mobile suits. That's cutting it close."

"_Erebus_ has its helo asset as well. Air superiority is still on our side."

Balke's face went grim. "We had air superiority over Europe during the War, too, and the Zeon still ended up ruling virtually every waterway and inland sea on the continent through the whole damn thing." He shrugged. "Fuck it, maybe we'll catch them by surprise if they manage to slip past the cordon and get out."

_I'm already counting on it._ "They won't get past us if we finish movement within my timeframe. Nevertheless, I'll let Dewar know to begin moving eastward. We'll want to cut them off before any of the options you've pointed out become reality, _if_ they manage to get out."

"Bounce it off Nijmegen, too. They may end up being out only line of defense if he goes west. Stilwell still has ammo and trainer suits." The grave look of Balke's face would have told anyone that he was not joking.

Tizard managed not to laugh. "I'll do that." _After I make another call first_. "When I return, I think you'll be telling me about that priest after all, Captain. If we're going to play on the same team after all, I think keeping secrets is something we're both going to have to swear off before New Year's."

For the first time since they met, Balke looked at Tizard with something resembling honest respect. "Yes, sir."

--------------------------------------

(To be continued next chapter. . .)

Author's Notes:

Uhland's _Lied_ is an actual German Remembrance Day pastime, though I don't think there are big public renditions of it in the style that I portrayed. It was written in 1809 and inspired by Tyrolian partisans fighting against Napoleon, and was parodied during World War I in the trenches by hungry _Wehrmacht_ soldiers. I found two translations to it, one of which was put to music, and while this translation isn't exact, I liked the flow of it better than the precise one. Even set to music, it's not pretty to speak out loud just because the language is so harsh, but in English the deeper meaning behind the lines comes out true and the idea of a thousand people saying it at the same time gave me shivers. The English is below:

'In battle he was my comrade,

None better I have had.

The drum called us to fight,

He always on my right,

In step, through good and bad.

A bullet it flew towards us,

For him or meant for me?

His life from mine it tore,

At my feet a piece of gore,

As if a part of me.

His hand reached up to hold mine.

I must re-load my gun.

"My friend, I cannot ease your pain,

In life eternal we'll meet again,

And walk once more as one."'

The "ditty" that Duhamel sings while being tortured is a verse and chorus from an old French song called "Trois Navires de Blé", which I became aware of thanks to a neat folk band from Newfoundland called Great Big Sea. Though I'm no French speaker, I really liked the song (which is best sung in French judging by how the piece is structured), so I tracked down a translation for it. The piece Duhamel quotes is, in English:

'The youngest was light on her feet  
We will play at the water's edge  
The youngest was light on her feet  
We will play at the water's edge  
To the side of the boat she skipped  
We will play  
At the water's edge  
We will play on the island

At the water's edge  
We will play on the island'


End file.
